About a year ago, the good Jewish folk of Johannesburg were shaken to the core when a great rabbi, a religious authority in that town fell from grace in a most resounding plunge. So great was this man’s authority prior to his fall, that it was difficult to find a seat in his synagogue on a Friday night.
I only saw him in full cry once – it was a Friday night, my Johannesburg host and I arrived a little late, we could hardly get through the door, and there was standing-room-only on the men’s side of the shul. I have no idea what the situation was on the women’s side, because this was an extremely “frum” shul, and an impenetrable solid wood six-foot partition separated the men from the women.
I recall being struck by the fact that The Great Man’s sermon saw him pacing up and down in front of the shul like an American lawyer in a court drama, and for some reason it struck me that he was rather good looking, except for a little paunch which peeped incongruously out of his open double-breasted jacket. But his words were profound and his well-heeled and sophisticated congregation drank them in with adoration.
And then one Sunday morning in Sea Point I spotted him in Checkers Supermarket, wandering between the isles with a shopping trolley, buying like a bachelor who only forages for himself. Something about that, and about his demeanor, struck me as odd. Of course rabbis are allowed to take holidays by the sea – and often do – it wasn’t that. There was an air of defeat, something which said, “If I look like a Great Rabbi from Johannesburg, ignore me, it’s just a coincidence – leave me alone”. In fact, I believed that it was a case of mistaken identity.
Twenty-four hours later the story ran through the community: the Great Man was a sex addict – he was running fifteen (fifteen!) mistresses simultaneously, he only got caught because he sent the wrong text message to the wrong woman, there were fifteen angry husbands prowling the streets of Johannesburg with baseball bats (or whatever) – how much of this was truth and how much was fiction, no-one knows. But he was summarily dismissed from his post, he didn’t argue, he left town the same day, and hence his shopping for groceries-for-one at Checkers in Sea Point on a Sunday morning. Within days he was out of the country.
Every job has its occupational hazards, and the business of religion is no different.
There is probably more than one explanation for the phenomenon in this story, but the one I like best is that a certain kind of woman is attracted to a certain kind of religious leader because, generally speaking, power is a well-known aphrodisiac, and the situation is that a woman in a shul generally gets to look her best, so there she is, all decked out in her Sabbath finery, and up there on the bima is a charismatic figure who is clearly in command of the entire congregation – he too looks his best, and with the best intentions in the world and for the noblest of reasons, he professes his love for all mankind … including her.
It is also a well-known fact that people feel better about themselves when they dress well – indeed, sometimes people who feel down are advised to take particular care of their appearance because looking good helps feeling good.
So there they are, looking good, feeling good … but while his mind is on higher things, her mind, particularly if she is not as schooled as he is in the intricacies of the faith – alas, her mind is wandering.
Let’s just say that you repeat that experience week after week for a few months. She allows herself the belief that he is looking at her – as well he may be, from time to time. The eyes are an amazing tool of communication. Our most common mistake is the belief that the eyes are passive – the belief that they only receive. In truth, eyes give as much as they receive. How often have you not had the feeling that someone is looking at you – and you search the room, and you find that someone right on the other side of the room is indeed staring at you? All that it might take would be for their eyes to meet a few times – his, projecting the fiery heat of his faith, hers, projecting adoration...
She may find questions to ask him after services. She may even make appointments to discuss issues. Generally, our religion has built-in safeguards for this sort of thing: women are encouraged to approach the rabbi’s wife rather than the rabbi, there are rules against males and females being alone, one-on-one in a room, and so on.
But what about the cantor? He has many of the virtues of the rabbi, but he has additional attractions: he has a beautiful voice, and by virtue of the fact that he physically leads the congregation in prayer, he projects an even greater level of power. He is a far earthier figure, his job depends upon a physical thing, and he speaks to the physicality of the people around him more than to their spirituality.
It was late in the afternoon. Cantor Eric XXXX had leapt out of his chair and was pacing my office in agitation, pointing one angry finger at the ceiling,
“Show me one Rabbi” – he shouted in a high-pitched voice – “show me one rabbi who hasn’t stepped off the pavement at some time or another! I know! I have worked with many of them! ”
Cantor Eric had been summarily dismissed by the management committee of his shul, and I was being briefed to sue them for unlawful dismissal.
I liked the way he had put that, and made a mental note, but I wasn’t about to get sidetracked with anecdotes of errant rabbis.
Cantor Eric made a second income from preparing young candidates for their barmitzvas. It was part of his job description, and his salary took that into account. Generally this aspect of his job required him to visit the homes of the young lads on a regular basis for some time (a few months) before the barmitzva, always getting closer to the goal of an acceptable rendition of the reading of the Torah on the appointed day.
This is a curious job, and it has its stars, its artists and its prima donnas, and frequently the young candidates and their parents are called upon to cooperate with the schedules of people whose services are of crucial importance at that point in the life of the candidate.
There was this young-ish divorcee who had twins who were destined to share a bar mitzvah in a few months’ time. The two boys were difficult students, because they were physically much bigger than their classmates, their mother, or their bar mitzvah teacher. They were terrible at their academic studies, but they were absolute heroes on the sports field, often the saviours of the school rugby team.
They gave their poor mother a hard time generally, and getting them into shape for their bar mitzvah was a mission indeed. The cantor’s car was often parked outside their house, no doubt engaged in the struggle to get them ready for the big day.
But it turned out that sometimes when the cantor’s car was parked outside their house, the boys were playing away games elsewhere. One had to assume that he was waiting patiently inside for them to come home and apologise for missing an appointment.
Unfortunately, life is never so simple and seldom so straightforward. This man of strength, this leader of prayers, this kind and religious man, was a source of great comfort to the poor divorcee. Notwithstanding that he had a family of his own waiting for him at home, he took time out of his busy schedule to lend some comfort to this lady – and since that could never be explained to the evil, suspicious world out there, these pleasant hours were simply allowed to pass as “bar mitzvah lessons”.
The trouble with small communities is that the eyes which hide behind lace curtains in the windows of the houses along every suburban street, apparently seldom close for sleep. They stayed open long enough to mark the departure of the boys in their rugby togs, the arrival of the cantor clutching his book, the departure of the cantor clutching his book, and the return of the boys, now in their muddied rugby togs. In that order.
Letters were written to the committee. Angry, self-righteous, indignant letters. Anonymous letters (how anonymous can you be if you say that you see things from a vantage point across the road – but, alright, if you want to be anonymous, then be anonymous). Merciless letters of condemnation. At first the letters were read “in committee”, but when the committee seemed slow to respond, the contents were leaked, as they say in Washington, to Those in the Know. I have a friend who refers to the ladies who fetch their kids from school every afternoon, and who therefore necessarily spend some time waiting for the bell to ring while chatting in the car park, as “the car park assassins”.
If any piece of gossip falls into that vortex, the victims should prepare for a storm and batten down the hatches. It is futile to retaliate. Your screams will simply be torn out of you by the storm, and disappear in the howling wind, and leave you fighting for air, and you will be worse off than before.
Of course, all of this played right into the hands of our two young bar mitzvah candidates, who bought themselves much time by simply leaving their mother alone. They couldn’t believe their luck. Suddenly, the pressure was off them, and they had lots of extra time to go and play rugby, or practice, or just to hang out with friends, if that was what their hearts desired. The bar mitzvah itself would be a tricky thing, but that was still months away.
But Cantor Eric had only begun to feel the pressure. It is a strange truth that when you suffer a misfortune, you suddenly start to hear about others who have suffered similar misfortunes: the man on crutches sees other men on crutches; the boy with only one leg sees other boys with only one leg. They were there all the time, but you had no reason to notice them. Now you do.
It transpired that this community was a seething hotbed of iniquity. Even the car park assassins and the sleepless eyes behind lace curtains – take at least some time out for rest and relaxation. If Cantor Eric was to be believed, the eleventh commandment was observed with greater fervour than the other ten – and meanwhile, while the poor divorcee wasn’t getting much publicity, Cantor Eric was facing a force 9 hurricane. Indignation was apparently part of repentance and a declaration of proper values – especially for those who needed them the most …
Cantor Eric knew of several holy men who had suffered similar misfortunes. Unfortunately, in the religion business, public confession and repentance don’t work for a leader. Do what you like, but when you are up there before the congregation, the greater your spiritual passion, the more certain it is that congregants are going to imagine you without your clothes on. It does not help to respond by saying that they are also the same people who most easily imagine others without their clothes on: right now, the spotlight shone upon Eric.
Everyone becomes a legal expert in the field of his own misfortune, and I no longer am amazed to hear my clients spout legal terminology in respect of their own issues. The more intelligent they are, the more they do their own reading and research between meetings but as any doctor will tell you, this is both a good and a bad thing because they form their own opinions based on their homework and very often you spend half a consultation disabusing them of strange notions which they have formulated based on their reading. I am not a labour lawyer and the time which I spent with Cantor Eric was really not intended as part of the so-called billable time which he would spend when I eventually handed him over to a labour lawyer: this was really just a courtesy which I extended in view of my relationship with the shul. The meeting had been arranged at Eric’s request after he had been warned accordingly and in the knowledge that whatever happened, both sides would be referred to other attorneys should it not prove capable of resolution quickly.
“There was no disciplinary hearing!” shouted Eric, “I never had a chance! What, did they think that I would just crumble at the first hint of trouble, and take my little package and go away?”
He was on form now.
“I know who those letters came from. Don’t think I don’t know. They should have been more understanding, those merciless bitches. Janice mustn’t think I’m not aware of her personal history. Suddenly, she’s indignant and outraged, all holier-than-thou and religious. But I remember her from the days when they held those wild parties in this neck of the woods, when G-d was the last thing on her mind”
I thought it would be better to just let him rant away for a bit and get it off his chest. And anyway, it promised to be interesting because I was a relative newcomer to the area and certainly never knew Janice other than as she was now – the veritable Mrs Tea Committee of the shul.
“And that Sandra XXXX!” – Well, I had actually had my own suspicions about Sandra, who had a habit of standing at the gate of the shul on Friday nights and greeted many of the men with a sweet little kiss.
“And Sandra’s friend Cheryl” – yes, I could see the two of them forming a deadly little support network of some kind.
But by and large the names which Eric came out with were those of formerly loose-moralled couples who had seen the light relatively recently, and Eric knew or guessed their dark past, and begrudged them the fact that they had escaped the condemnation and punishment which they now visited upon him.
We still had not got to the question of why he chose to cheat on his own wife, or how he had become so close to the poor young divorcee, or what his intentions were for the future in that regard.
We never did, because the heat generated by “those bitches” became unbearable, the ferocity of their indignation at the betrayal which they felt in this man of god, was too much for him, and one morning we awoke to find that he had gone. He left his wife, his children and the poor young divorcee, and folded his tent and disappeared into the night. And in so doing, and in denying the community the chance to rub his face in it, he eliminated any remaining doubts in their minds, and allowed them to live on in the smug belief that they had exorcised an unacceptable evil from their midst – and for a while, the good folk of suburbia returned to their holy pursuits, and peace reigned.
Eventually, a new cantor was appointed at the shul. He had an even sweeter voice than Cantor Eric, and what was more, Cantor Ian was good with kids, and they loved his nimble ways and funny word-play which he mischievously introduced into prayers at children’s services. Moreover, Cantor Ian had a beautiful wife who soon became part of the social scene, and quite set the tone for fashionable religious women in that community. They were an adorable couple. They had been trying to have children of their own for some time, the story went, and this was just the place to settle down and get that sorted out in earnest.
Amongst their growing circle of personal friends there was a young accountant who everyone agreed had a great future at one of the “Big Four” international accounting firms, and his pretty young wife and two small children. They only lived a block away from each other, and saw each other often, both formally and informally.
And then this young accountant did the most unaccountable thing. He ran off with his secretary, leaving his pretty young wife (many agreed that she was much prettier than his secretary) and small children to fend for themselves. Naturally, the cantor and his wife felt bound to lend moral support, and often the cantor could be seen (as those sleepless eyes behind lace curtains all down the street did indeed see him) entering or leaving the deserted wife’s house, no doubt on some mission of mercy and support, in his tireless and generous fashion.
When Cantor Ian and his wife suddenly announced that they were leaving, they left in different directions – he, to another town, and she, to another country. Fortunately, she never did get to have that baby they had been wanting.
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© Harry Friedland, 1999
