Curtain Call – Crisis of Identity & Tale of Belonging

 Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

A new congregant approaches the rabbi and says, “I’d like to become a Kohen.” The rabbi gazes up from his holy books and patiently explains, “I’m sorry, but you can’t just become a Kohen.”

Undeterred, he continues, “Rabbi, I can make it worth your while. That old jalopy you drive? It’s seen better days. I’ll buy you a brand new SUV. But I must become a Kohen!” 

With his patience waning but his curiosity piquing, the gray-bearded leader resolutely tells the man, “Nothing you say or do will change my position. I simply can’t make you a Kohen. But you must tell me: why in the world is this so important to you?”

The congregant, tears welling in his eyes, explains, “Well, my grandfather was a Kohen, and his father before him. My father was also a Kohen. So that’s why I’m desperate to become a Kohen too!”

***

Growing up in Binghamton in the 60’s and 70’s, our centers of Jewish life were Beth David Synagogue and Hillel Academy, our local day school. I would characterize Beth David as cozy, and that it was. But you wouldn’t know it from looking at the building. The physical design is anything but inviting. Both the exterior and interior are composed of concrete and unfinished cinderblocks, hardly materials which project warmth. Though the building won an architectural award, many of us — even a half century later — are still scratching our heads and wondering what the designer was thinking (or, perhaps, smoking). 

What the structure lacked in physical charm, the shul more than compensated with its welcoming cadre of members and leadership. It was a hub of vibrant, caring Judaism. For most of my years, Rabbi Raphael Groner was its inimitable, charismatic, humble shepherd. Those days were the heyday of Beth David, and the Orthodox shul attracted membership from well beyond the traditionally-observant population. In fact, the rabbi of the Reform Temple down the street would join our minyan on days when they did not have services. That, however, is a story — or several stories — for another time.

Today’s story is about Norman.

Norman (not his real name) showed up in our cozy Shul in Binghamton around the mid-1970s. Norman could have been the illustration in the dictionary next to the word “malodorous”. It was that special blend of body odor catalyzed by alcohol, which can often be encountered on the streets of major cities. By today’s more refined nomenclature, he could be referred to as homeless, though technically, he did have a small place of his own. Back then, he would probably have been referred to as a hobo or a bum. 

He was Jewish, and clearly had some knowledge of religion. He started showing up to Shul every Shabbat, for the first time in half a century. It turned out that he had been an actor, and as is all-too-common in that profession, the passing of time had not been kind to him. There were no more parts to play. Eventually, he found himself down on his luck, divorced and wandering. 

Perhaps he was coming to Shul to find an anchor in his directionless life. Perhaps connecting with the “Chevra” in Shul nurtured him with needed companionship. Or maybe it just gave him an escape from the cruel outside world, an opportunity to spend a couple of hours in a warm building with even warmer people. 

While ‘homelessness’ may be a fairly modern term, helping the indigent is certainly not a recent concept, and it courses strong through the veins of the Jew. I would like to think that the Shul and its people were good to him. I wouldn’t have been privy to any knowledge of assistance the Shul provided, as I was a youngster at the time. But I trust he found solace and sustenance in his visits.

Not long after Norman came on the scene, at a Shabbat morning Torah reading, the quorum was short of a Levi. 

“Is there a Levi in the house?”, they asked. 

Norman’s eyes lit up, and he spoke up excitedly: “I’m a Levi!”

And so the minyan was supplied with a resident Levi, who regularly attended the minyan. They no longer had to poll the crowd to find one. He may have smelled, and I’m certain there was no talk of membership dues, but he was part and parcel of the Shul now. 

His hard life and the bottles of booze finally caught up with him, taking their toll on his body. Norman passed away after a couple of years. Family members appeared for his funeral, and sat with Rabbi Groner in advance, to review the details of the service and burial. 

“His Hebrew name was Meir ben Yosef Halevi,” the rabbi confirmed with them. 

“What do you mean?” they asked incredulously. “We’re not Levis!”

***

Someone from my regular Shul and I found ourselves together in a different minyan last week for Shabbat Mincha. As the Gabbai scanned the crowd to see who could get the first Aliya to the Torah, they called out “Kohen!?”  Although I didn’t actually verbalize it, I considered turning to my friend, and telling him that this was his big chance to claim he was a Kohen, and get the first Aliya.

Who would know?

This reminded me of Norman, in perhaps the greatest starring role of his life. His final performance was the part of the Levi. The show ran for years. He was so believable that everyone in the audience was convinced that he actually was a Levi. 

Whether he found G-d or companionship or merely a cushioned chair to rest his weary body, Norman’s curtain call left an indelible impression. 

To those of us who remember him, the smell may long have dissipated, but in our minds he will always be “Norman the Levi”.

***

[Author’s note: When I shared the first draft of this blog with my better half, she reminded me that my father, Shalom Staiman, ob’m, had already recounted this episode in one of his books. I checked, and, sure enough, he told the tale of Norman (although he bestowed upon him the pseudonym “Irving Schwarz”). In my opinion, my father’s retelling far surpasses my own. But since the story will be new to most of you, and the perspective from which I wrote is different, I decided to publish it. I don’t think he would have minded!]