Features
The River – an excerpt from a new novel by former Winnipegger Zev Coehn
Introduction: The following story is an excerpt from a longer story in Zev Cohen’s new novel titled “Are You Still Alive?”
As Zev wrote to us recently, “this is Chapter One of my novel, “Are You Still Alive?” It is partially based on events recounted to me by my late father Moshe. The story, beyond being one of the countless tales of Jewish survival against all odds during the Holocaust, is also an allegory for the indomitable human spirit intertwined with Rabbi Akiva’s maxim ‘V’havta l’raecha kamocha’. I hope to have the complete novel published soon.
Zev’s writing has appeared several times in the past in this paper. His collection of short stories, titled “Twilight in Saigon,” was published in 2021.
Born in Israel, Zev lived in Winnipeg until he was 17, when he returned to Israel with his parents. He now spends half the year in Israel and half the year in Calgary, where his two sons live.
Chumak leads the way towards the river in the dark. I had walked the route from his hut to the riverbank in daylight a few times and am confident I know the path down to the water and back. This time, though, I intend to cross to the other side under cover of darkness. Chumak, who came up with the idea, eagerly insists on guiding me so, he says, I don’t get lost. He claims he can find his way blindfolded. I think he believes that if this works, he might soon be rid of us, although he hasn’t said anything openly about it. To be fair, my suspicion just might be a projection of my own pressing desire to escape on to Chumak, whom I trust implicitly.
This summer has been uncommonly wet, and tonight the clouds are scudding low, hiding the moon and stars and making it difficult for others to spot us. At first, the only sounds are those of our movement through the brush and the occasional whoosh of passing nightbirds. The path is not overly challenging, and my labored breathing and rapidly beating heart stem more from fear than physical effort. Though I’m soaked to the skin by the constant drizzle, it is a minor irritation in the face of what I expect lies ahead. The sudden rattle of machine-gun fire causes us to instinctively fall flat on the ground, but luckily it isn’t close by, and we move forward a moment later. Distant flickers of lightning and muffled thunder are the backdrops as I blunder through the undergrowth and futilely attempt to avoid trees. Banging my knee against a tree trunk while trying to keep up with Chumak, I stifle a cry of pain, and then suddenly, I slip and slide down the muddy embankment, unable to get any traction. He grabs me before I plunge headfirst into the river.
“Quiet, you’ll get us caught,” he whispers as he holds my arm in his vicelike grip. “There are German and Romanian patrols on both sides of the river. Be more careful, or you will end up dead before you begin.”
The slope ends at the lapping water’s edge, but the river is barely visible in the blackness. A dog begins to bark incessantly on the other side. Has it picked up our scent even before I start to swim? I have no choice but to take my chances. Along the opposite bank downriver, dim points of light seem to be moving—smugglers perhaps or night fishermen. It’s hard to estimate how far away they are. I hope the current doesn’t drag me to them, but there is no going back. At least, for now, no searchlights are combing this particular area. Chumak seems to have picked the right spot.
Lightning flashes again, stronger this time, and in that instant, I realize how far it is to the other side across the rippling current. My swimming experience is limited to a small, calm pond near home, where my brother taught me some strokes. The wide, flowing river looks ominous, but I’ve made it this far, and I can’t give up now. And Chumak urges me on. I’m already knee-deep in the water, shivering, but not because the water is especially frigid.
“You can do it,” he encourages me. “The current isn’t so strong at this time of year. You must do it. It’s your only hope. Go!”
I stop for a moment and turn to him. “If anything happens…if I don’t make it back, help Ella and Sophie, please. They have no one else.” I don’t want to sound as if I’m pleading, but I am.
“Go, nothing will happen. You’re going to save them and yourself,” he says. “It’s the only way. I will wait here till you reach the other side and when you get there, clap some stones together three times to let me know you are safely there. The sound carries far at night. I’ll hear it, and I’ll tell Pani Ella that you made it.” Amid everything, I notice that this is the first time he calls Ella by her name.
I move slowly into the deeper water. At first, it’s easy; the water is up to my chest, but my feet still touch the soft muddy bottom. Then, without warning, it drops away, and I’m flailing and swallowing water. Finally, I calm down, gain control, and begin to swim. The current takes hold and starts pushing me downriver. Sputtering, I force myself to fight the rising panic and use my arms and kick with my legs in a crawl that will hopefully propel me towards the unseen shoreline. It’s working, and I’m not drowning, but I’m weakening rapidly. The combination of sickness I haven’t completely recovered from since the camp and general malnutrition has sapped me of strength. My clothes are waterlogged and drag me down. This can’t continue much longer. How idiotic would it be, I think, if I drowned now before beginning my mission? Rolling over on my back, I take the pig’s bladder that Chumak wrapped the note in from my pocket, and holding it tight, I squirm out of my pants to lighten the load. I let the current carry me and turn on my back to stroke and move gradually in the riverbank direction. It is less exhausting this way.
I’ve lost any notion of time as I float on my back and see nothing but the overcast sky. Has it been minutes? An hour? I fear trying to stand. If it’s still deep, I might sink and not be able to come back up. At least the rain has stopped. Some clouds have dispersed, and I can see stars in the black sky. Then I hear it. A baying sound getting closer. Maybe a dog? Then barking. Yes, a dog. Thankfully I must be near the shore. My feet hit bottom. I totter through the shallow water and, in the faint moonlight, survey a pebbly beach fronting the tree line. There is no sign of the huts nor of the large two-story house Chumak had pointed out some days earlier opposite my point of departure.
The house, he told me, belonged to a certain Nicolescu, a wealthy Romanian and well-known smuggler before the war. Chumak suggested that my woman, as he called Ella, write a letter to Nicolescu in Romanian asking for his help crossing the river. I imagined that he would get the letter to the Romanian or at least knew someone who could do it, so it took me by surprise when he said, “You will bring the letter to him, and he will make the arrangements.”
It seemed like a far-fetched idea. Beyond the problem of my crossing the river, in itself seemingly suicidal, why, I asked, would any Romanian, not to mention a wealthy smuggler, have anything to do with helping Jews? This is probably a punishable offense in Romania and meant certain death in German-occupied Poland. Only gypsies were desperate enough to offer their services. Even if Nicolescu was willing to help me, I had no money to pay him.
Moreover, those who did pay were often betrayed and delivered to the authorities on one or the other side. There was no guarantee of success, and many lost their lives in the attempt. A few days earlier, I saw a clump of corpses roped to each other floating down the river. I didn’t consider my death an issue anymore, but I was afraid of exposing Ella and the child to the risks involved. I told Chumak to forget it. I couldn’t do it.
“What choice do you have?” Chumak pressed. “Don’t be a fool. You, the woman, and the child definitely won’t survive on this side of the river, and you will stand a better chance over there, as far away as you can get from the Germans.”
His understanding of the situation is correct. The local peasants were handing Jews over for some butter or sugar and an opportunity to steal their belongings. They say a drowning man will grasp at a razor blade to save himself, so I agree.
“Even if I manage to make it across, how will I convince him? I have no money.”
Chumak was skeptical about my claim of penury. This wasn’t out of spite that he had thought through but rather an inherited bias. He was of the age-old school that believed Jews always had hidden treasure somewhere. He was convinced that if I couldn’t offer cash immediately, Nicolescu would accept a promise of future payment from a “high-class” Jew like me. To me, this appeared to be just wishful thinking since Chumak admitted never having actually done business with this Romanian smuggler, who was out of his league.
Chumak remained adamant, and his confident tone was hard to resist. “Tell your woman to write that she comes from an important, prosperous family in Romania that will pay him generously for his efforts. Give him a written guarantee.”
Before I could change my mind, he produced a slightly greasy lined sheet of paper from a child’s copybook and a blunt pencil stub. I took it to our hideout in the nearby forest, where I cajoled Ella, who also thought the plan was absurd and not doable, into writing the requisite supplication and promise of reward.
Standing on the flat terrain on this side of the river, I realize that the current took me downstream, and I need to walk back to the Nicolescu house. I’m not sure how far it is, but at least I can see where I’m going in the moonlight. I find some stones and strike them together three times, as I promised Chumak, hoping that he hears me, and goes back to report to Ella. Not expecting a response, I walk close to the tree line, off the riverbank pathway used by locals and military patrols. When a searchlight sweeps the river from the Polish side, I scamper into the trees, waiting, breathing hard, and picking up a dead branch for self-defense. Going forward, I detour through the woods to avoid a small group of men sitting by the embers of a fire smoking and passing around a bottle. Hunters or fishermen, I believe.
The house lies ahead through the gate of a stone-walled enclosure. No light escapes from the windows. Nearby in the compound, there are two thatched-roof peasant huts, weak light emanating from one of the windows, and a barn where a horse nickers. I stop to consider which building would be best to approach, and then, as I take a step closer, the dogs come at me, snarling. I fend them off with the branch, hitting one of them in the head. It runs off whimpering while the others keep their distance, growling, and barking. I’m done for. They are going to wake everyone. I retreat into the adjacent cornfield, crouching there cold, miserable, and afraid, as a woman appears holding a lantern outside one of the huts. She calls off the dogs and shoos them into the barn. As she locks the barn door, she stares into the darkness in my direction before going to draw water from a well in the yard and returning to the hut.
I can’t stay here much longer as indecision eats away at my remaining determination. It’s time to make a move, either forward to Nicolescu, whatever the risk and chances of success, or back across the river in abject failure. I run to the hut showing light and knock hesitantly. The dogs continue barking hysterically in the barn. Nothing happens, and I try again more decisively.
“Who’s there,” asks a muffled woman’s voice in Ukrainian.
“It’s me,” I reply. What else could I say?
She opens the door a crack. People must be accustomed to seeing strange sights around here because she doesn’t slam the door in the face of the wet, disheveled, half-naked specter that stands before her.
“What do you want? Who are you looking for?” the woman asks as if I was routinely passing by.
“I have an important letter for Mr. Nicolescu. He needs to see it,” I say, also in Ukrainian.
She invites me into the hut. Alone in the single, earthen floor room, she wears widow’s black. Wrinkeled but unbent, her age is indeterminate. Most of the space in the room is taken up by a traditional wooden loom, while a large blackened icon of the Savior hangs above a stove. I rarely devoted attention to Christian symbols, having never, so far, entered a church and always hurrying by the ubiquitous roadside shrines in our vicinity with eyes averted. The narrative of Christianity and Christians as moral and physical threats was, since time immemorial part of our Jewish psyche, but I have no direct personal experience of it. Even the murder of my father by Jew-hating thugs, which undoubtedly weighed heavily on my perception of the people who surrounded us, didn’t feel like a religious issue. Now though, as I stand here shivering, Jesus on the cross seems to be observing me ominously. But, immediately, my attention is drawn away to a piece of bread on a side table, and without invitation, I grab it and chew hungrily. The woman sees that I am exhausted and soaked and tells me to sit and rest. She brings me a blanket and pours a cup of water, watching silently as I continue chewing the bread thoroughly.
When I finish, she says, “You are from over there. You’re a Jew.” It’s not posed as a question, and she clearly knows why I have come. I’m not the first desperate Jew who has shown up on her doorstep. To my relief, she doesn’t take long to make her decision. “I will take you to Mr. Nicolescu’s mother. She lives in the other hut. Maybe she will help you.”
“Thank you.” I’m wary of digging too deeply into the subject for fear of treading on sensitive toes, but I’m also anxious to find out what has happened on this side of the river and know what to expect if Ella and Sophie are to cross with me later. “Are there any Jews left around here?” I ask warily. “What about the Jews in the city?”
“They got rid of all our Jews,” she replies in a matter-of-fact tone. “They say the devil came for them. You need to watch out.”
“Come,” she beckons. “We should go to Nicolescu’s mother before anyone else sees you here. People won’t hesitate to give you up.” I follow her to the neighboring hut, where a tall, old woman approaches us. “Who is that with you, Bohuslava?” she calls out in Romanian. “Beware of robbers. I’ll get a stick and run him off.”
Bohuslava walks over to her. “Shh, be quiet,” she says in Ukrainian. “Stop fussing. He means no harm and just wants to show you something. “Come here quickly,” she gestures to me.
Grey-haired, slightly stooped, with one eye clouded by a cataract, she must be in her seventies but looks far from frail. She takes my hand with a firm grip. “Let’s go inside,” she says.
She lights a kerosene lamp. This is a much bigger and well-appointed abode with an ornate porcelain stove dominating the room and a dining table covered in a hand-embroidered red and white tablecloth. Adjacent to the stove stands a single bed occupied by a young woman sleeping, oblivious to us.
“Bohuslava, you may go,” the Romanian says. “Just keep your mouth shut, or it won’t be long before everybody is aware that you take in Jewish strays. We don’t need that kind of trouble.”
“What will I say?” answers the other woman on her way out. “That you have a new lover and a Jewish one at that,” she cackles.
“Sit,” the tall woman says, pointing to a chair beside the table. Like most Romanians living on the border, she is fluent in Ukrainian, while my Romanian is rudimentary at best. “Show me what you brought,” she asks. I remove it from the pig’s bladder and hand the grotty piece of paper to her. She dons reading glasses and concentrates on the message.
“Good Romanian,” is her first reaction. “Who wrote it? It couldn’t be you.”
“My wife,” I say tersely.
“Is she from around here?”
“She is from the city,” I reply. “Actually, we’re together but not officially married. She has a small child, her daughter, with her. They were forced across the river with others a few months ago, and we are trying to get back to the city to join relatives who might still be there. The situation on the other side of the river is deadly.”
“Yes, I know. It’s not really safe here, either. If you’re caught, they will send you back there without a second thought. Don’t expect much pity here because nobody wants to get in trouble for hiding Jews from the authorities.”
Not wanting to get into a discussion on motivations. I prefer to get to the point. “I was told that your son, Domnul Nicolescu, has experience getting people across the river. If your son could help us, we will take our chances. It’s preferable to certain death over there.”
“I can’t speak for him,” she says. “He is a good man, but I doubt, though, that he would be willing to take such a great risk. He was never involved in the smuggling of people across the border. It’s a bad business. For him, it has always been cigarettes and other contraband.”
I am surprised, honestly, that she speaks so openly of her son’s activities to a stranger… especially to one with a price on his head. Though she doesn’t hold out hope, her demeanor and attitude give me a sliver of confidence. “You should get some rest,” she suggests, “and I will take you to him in the morning.”
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Margareta. And yours?”
“I am Emil. Thank you, Doamna Margareta, for your kindness. I hope your son takes after you.”
She wakes the girl rudely and pushes her into the other room. “Here, take this bed. The servant girl can sleep in my room. I will leave some dry clothes for you and wake you when we need to go.”
“Thank you again. Good night.” I kiss her hand.
“Good night, Domnule Emil. Sleep well.”
I feel exhausted and drained, and my shriveled muscles ache from the unaccustomed effort of swimming across the water, but sleep remains elusive. It’s not the discomfort of the thin, lumpy mattress and the scratchy wool blanket that still hold the sour odor of their previous user, nor is it the constant, sometimes frantic, barking of dogs outside that keep rest at bay. By now, I’m also habituated to grasping moments of sleep in more dire circumstances, whether in the camp barracks or on the cold forest floor. Tonight I’m kept wide awake by the train of thoughts and questions running in a relentless loop through my mind. Are Ella and Sophie safe on the other side, alone with the Chumaks? Will Nicolescu agree to help without payment in advance? Will we be betrayed by the smuggler as so many have been before us? What lies in store for us on this side without any means for survival at our disposal? Should we hide in the countryside here or take the risk of heading for the city? I try to block out the most subversive, monstrous, cowardly, and tempting considerations, but they are there. The palpable fear of swimming back across the river toward the near certainty of death, tries to convince me that I’m now safer and that on my own, I stand a better chance of hiding and surviving. Yes, I would be abandoning Ella and Sophie, but by going back, I would only join them in being captured and killed. They would be safer staying with the Chumaks, who certainly would take pity and continue to conceal and support a defenseless woman and child. Or maybe I could remain here and just send the smuggler for them. I want to scream. I will go back.
The sun is up when Margareta nudges me awake and offers me a mug of hot tea while waiting as I put on the clothes she brought. They belong to a larger man, but they will have to do. I walk with her to the door of the house. A few people, already out and about, are on their way to work in the fields, some leading cattle and a flock of sheep. The men doff their hats and greet her, paying no attention to me.
Margareta instructs me to wait outside and enters without knocking. I hear raised voices inside. “Have you lost your mind? Why did you bring him here? Do you want to get us arrested? Send him away!” A few moments later, Margareta reappears with another woman, a pale ash blonde of about forty, holding a cigarette in her long elegant fingers with a worried look on her face — definitely not of the farming class. The woman scans the yard nervously.
“My mother-in-law told me what you want. I am sorry, but Mr. Nicolescu doesn’t do this business. We cannot do anything for you.” Her voice trembles and she is obviously terrified. “Anyway, he is not here. He is in the city, and I don’t know when he will be back. You must go. It’s dangerous here, and you will get us into trouble. Please go now.” She starts to retreat into the house.
I can’t hold her against her will, and if Nicolescu is indeed away, there is nothing more to be gained here. “Thank you, Doamna Nicolescu,” I say in Romanian and press my luck. “I will go, but could you kindly give me some bread?”
She goes inside and is soon back with half of a large loaf. I once again kiss her well-manicured hand and turn to leave.
“Mr. Emil,” says Margareta, “You should not wander around here in daylight. It’s dangerous to stay out in the open. Why don’t you hide in the barn till dark? It will be safer that way.”
“Again, you are so kind, Madame, but I must return to my family. It has been too long already. They are alone and will worry that something bad has happened to me. I will be as careful as I can.”
“Very well, if you must, but follow me.” She leads me into the forest on a narrow footpath that is a roundabout way down to the water’s edge. “Eat the bread, you need the strength, and it will be ruined in the water,” she says. I need no more encouragement as I almost choke, devouring it. She turns to leave. “Be careful, Emil, and good luck to you. I will talk to Nicolescu when he returns. Maybe he will agree to help. He has more conscience than that frightened ornament he calls his wife. How can he find you?”
“There is a peasant named Chumak. He knows where we are,” I tell her.
“Yes, Chumak. I know him. He also used to smuggle cigarettes before the war.”
“Thank you, Madame. I will remember your generosity.” She is gone.
I sit brooding among the trees looking at the river as the sun glints off the streaming water and listening to cheerful birds chirping. I can’t help but ponder the difference between the elderly women, Bohuslava and Margareta, and the wife of Nicolescu. I’m not surprised by the younger woman’s reaction. It is one version, slightly less brusque, of the general refusal to help Jews. But, all other considerations aside, who can blame people for fearing the fatal punishments meted out by the Germans and their Ukrainian lackeys to so-called Jew-lovers? Would I behave any differently in their shoes? I am more impressed, not to say astonished, by those candles in the darkness, people who have everything to lose, yet whose basic humanity causes them to stretch out their hands to support their fellow men and women. That rough peasant Chumak, whose whole universe is his tiny homestead next to an unknown village on the banks of the river, heads my list of the righteous. Now I add Bohuslava and Margareta to it. The existence of such people, beyond their contribution to our physical safety, keeps alive my essential positivity toward humankind and allows me to still retain some belief in our survival.
What next, I ask myself? I achieved nothing and have no other plan in reserve. Swimming back in broad daylight now seems suicidal. Maybe drowning is a good option? But that means abandoning Ella and the child, and I have already decided this is not an option. Bring back yesterday’s rain, I pray. I pray, though my belief in the idea of an Almighty, never cast-iron, has been dramatically undermined by the past year’s events. Then the wind picks up, and the miracle unfolds. Dark clouds scud across the sky, and the first drops wet my face, replacing the tears. In moments the downpour becomes torrential. I tie the new clothes around my neck and dive into the river, feeling more energetic on my way back. The current is slow enough for me to gradually dog-paddle most of the way across and finish with a few crawl strokes.
I’m carried only about a half-kilometer downstream, and elation replaces caution as I drag myself onto the riverbank and start walking. Climbing up the steep slope, Chumak’s hut is soon ahead, but when I approach and enter it, nobody is there. I look for Ella and Sophie, but the barn is empty too, and figuring that Chumak is probably out working in the field, I continue upwards into the forest towards our erstwhile hiding place. Ella and Sophie are supposed to wait there for me in case of trouble. I call out not to surprise them but there is no reply. I run to the hideout. They are gone.
Features
“The Rabbi of Baton Rouge”: new book is both a rom com and an insightful look at the challenges of living in a small Jewish community
Reviewed by BERNIE BELLAN About a month ago I received an email from a publicist about a new book titled The Rebbe of Baton Rouge.
Now, I should explain that even though I’m now officially retired as publisher of The Jewish Post I still receive loads of emails inviting me to review new books. Unfortunately, most of the titles seem to fall into one of two categories: Either self-help books or books about the Holocaust. I usually don’t even open those emails.
But, when I received this particular email – whose title alone intrigued me (“Review copy: the Rebbe of Baton Rouge”), I decided to read the email.
Here’s what it said:
“Dear Bernie,
“I hope you’ll consider The Rebbe of Baton Rouge for review or feature coverage in The Jewish Post and News. It’s a new Southern-Jewish novel from University of Louisiana at Lafayette Press, out this October.
“Anna Zisk, a Yiddish literature professor, flees a scandal in Boston and moves back into her childhood home in Baton Rouge. Adam Kluger is the new rabbi in town, trying to hold together a shrinking congregation in a city with barely enough Jews to fill a high school gym. His ex-fiancée left him at the altar, a rival synagogue is picking off his members, and he’s being haunted by a Yiddish-speaking ghost. Then he starts falling for Anna.
“It’s a funny, fast-moving rom-com that’s also about faith, belonging, and what holds a small community together.
“The authors, Jennifer Anne Moses and Stuart Green, lived in Baton Rouge for years and raised their three children there. Jennifer has written nine previous books, including the memoir Bagels and Grits: A Jew on the Bayou. Stuart is a Distinguished Professor of Law at Rutgers.
“I’d be glad to send a PDF or print review copy or arrange an interview with the authors. Thank you for considering it.”
I responded to the publicist:
“This sounds interesting – a bit of a distraction from the endless series of Holocaust books that we’re usually asked to consider reviewing.
“You can send me a pdf of the book and I’ll take a look at it – no promises.”
In short order I received a pdf of The Rebbe of Baton Rouge – and wow – was this one ever good!
The problem is, after you’ve finished reading what’s about to be a glowing review, you’re going to have a tough time buying this book. From what I can see, it’s available only through Amazon so far – and even though Amazon says it’s just a paperback, it’s priced at $42.66 (I assume that’s in Canadian dollars because I looked for it on Amazon Canada.)
Putting aside the cost of the book, however, I want to tell you why I was so thoroughly entertained by this book – and why I think it will interest Winnipeg Jews in particular.
The story is set mostly in Baton Rouge, which I discovered is a relatively small city (only about 225,000 population) – with a very small Jewish population (only about 1500).
From the way it’s described in the book, anyone considering moving there would have to think twice before doing that. It’s very humid, is infested with mosquitoes – and, at the time the book was set (which is 2016), it was prime MAGA territory.
The two principal protagonists in the book, a Yiddish studies professor named Anna Zisk, and a Reform rabbi named Adam Kluger, both end up in Baton Rouge – although neither one by choice.
Anna has become entangled in an embarrassing affair with one of her male grad students in a Boston college – and when the affair ends at Anna’s insistence, the grad student launches a sexual harassment campaign against Anna, which forces her to leave Boston and head back home to Baton Rouge, which is where she is from and where her family still lives.
Rabbi Kluger, on the other hand, is looking for a pulpit of his own – even though he’s had a prior successful career working as a programmer for Google. He’s also decided to break off a relationship with a woman he says he loves, Deborah, because she wouldn’t even consider moving with him to the boonies – in this case, Baton Rouge.
Now, that particular aspect of the story really resonated with me. Here we have a rabbi who doesn’t really want to move to a community which is looking for a new rabbi (after the previous rabbi has died suddenly), but he figures he’ll take the position – until something better turns up.
Frankly, given the fact that neither Anna nor Adam is looking forward to living in Baton Rouge – for different reasons, I was expecting the book to turn into a typical rom com where two ill-starred people find love by being thrust together in unfortunate circumstances.
But The Rebbe of Baton Rouge isn’t that kind of book – much to my delight – and surprise. Sure, Anna and Adam do connect – although I won’t ruin the surprise by telling you what happens in the end, but their connection is more a result of their both respecting one another and having an honest appreciation of the plight that has led both of them to Baton Rouge. (Anna is actually pursued by a handsome Jewish doctor in Baton Rouge, while Adam’s former girlfriend is also quite beautiful – and still cares for him deeply, so it’s not as if Anna and Adam are two losers thrown together after having been rejected by others). They both need to decide whether they are willing to make certain concessions for the sake of ending up just “comfortable,” rather than truly fulfilled.
What I especially appreciated was the manner in which Rabbi Adam especially, comes to find the charm of serving as a rabbi to a small, and very unfunded congregation, so rewarding. There’s a complication to his position though: While he’s the rabbi of a very small Reform congregation, the rabbi of the only other Reform congregation in Baton Rouge, whose membership is much larger, has his sights set on absorbing the members of the smaller congregation into his own.
And frankly – it makes total sense for the two congregations to merge. (Now, haven’t we seen this same scenario played out in Winnipeg?) In fact, a major part of the book is taken up with Rabbi Adam seeking a better paying position elsewhere in the U.S. (in this case, Santa Barbara) because he’s very concerned his own congregation is about to be swallowed up by the larger congregation – and he’s worried that he will end playing second fiddle to a dominant, longer serving rabbi.
As for Anna, she tries to make the best of a bad situation by accepting a temporary position teaching English composition to the members of the Louisiana State University football team – which provides both some comic relief, but also puts her into another embarrassing situation when she is accused of becoming too close with the star of the football team – even though her intentions are totally above board (and so are the football star’s).
Through into the mix an intriguing sub plot about a Hasid ghost who appears every so often in Rabbi Adam’s life – to offer sage advice when Adam is at his lowest points. There is an explanation for why the ghost appears, but I wont’ spoil it here.
One other thing – the book is full of Yiddishkeit. Each chapter has a Yiddish title (there’s a glossary at the end in case you don’t understand the words) and there’s a fair bit of Yiddish sprinkled throughout the book. (After all, Anna is a Yiddish professor – not that she uses Yiddish in her everyday speech. It just gives the book a real “haimish” feel.)
I ought to mention something about the authors: Jennifer Anne Moses and Stuart Green. Jennifer Moses is an accomplished novelist (having written seven previous works of fiction, along with two memoirs), while Stuart Green is a Rutgers law professor who’s also written several books on the law. They began writing The Rebbe of Baton Rouge together during the Covid epidemic. It’s their first jointly written book.
The dialogue in the book is sharp and well informed. It’s clear that Jennifer Moses has honed her craft – and while I was expecting the book to be full of clichés about a rabbi and a congregant having to ward off their physical attractiveness to one another – which is the primary theme of that annoying American show about a rabbi and a non-Jewish woman falling in love in “Nobody Wants This,” this book makes offers much deeper insights into many of the challenges 30 and 40 something Jews face today, including choosing careers over relationships, and the difficulty of finding meaningful relationships in the first place.
And, as for getting a rabbi to move to the boondocks – well Baton Rougers, have you ever heard of Winnipeg?
The Rebbe of Baton Rouge
By Jennifer Anne Moses and Stuart Green
Published by University of Louisiana at Lafayette Press, 2026
202 pages
Available on Amazon
Features
You might not like what this article has to say about what happened on October 7 and the aftermath
By MARTY GREEN I just read a very disturbing article in Ha’aretz about the treatment of Arab prisoners in Israeli detention. 71-year-old Dr. Mazen Rantisi was recently released after 127 days in detention, and he told Amira Hass about conditions on the inside. No, he was not hung upside-down and beaten; his fingernails were not pulled out or his bones broken. That is not the Jewish way. Without getting into details, the conditions he describes are more along the lines of filth, enforced “discomfort”, hunger, and daily humiliations. And yes, occasional kindness from one guard or another. All in all, treatment no better (and probably often worse) than our own hostages received while they were being held in Gaza.
Which brings me to the point of this article. We like to justify our devastation of Gaza by reminding the world that the declared purpose of Hamas’s invaders was to kill every single Jew they could get their hands on…man, woman, or child. “It’s right there in their Charter!” we proclaim.
We, on the hand, were perfectly blameless in our conduct of the war. “We dropped leaflets to warn people of impending attacks”. “Civilian casualties were because Hamas used them as human shields”. And our trump card: “Hamas could have ended the war at any moment by simply releasing the hostages”.
Could they really have? The last hostages were released a year ago but we are still killing “militants” every single day…some 1,600 since October 10th 2005. (A figure not disputed by Israeli authorities…and considerably more than the 1200 Israeli’s killed on October 7th.) It seems we continue to carry out targeted killings of every single Gaza resident who we can identify as having participated in the October 7th operation…even if those targeted killings involve “collateral damage”.
Yes, we had every justification to invade Gaza to rescue our hostages. But on October 7th weren’t there already thousands of Arab prisoners being held “hostage” in our own prisons, including 1,300 being held without criminal charges or pending trial under our “administrative detention” system? And if the conditions were anything close to those described by Dr. Rantisi, was the need for action (at least from Hamas’s viewpoint) to liberate those prisoners – by whatever means possible – any less than the subsequent need for us to liberate our own hostages?
Does any of this justify the unspeakable cruelties perpetrated by Hamas on October 7th? This is a difficult question to answer, because those cruelties and acts of barbarism were so…well, unspeakable…that Israel has for the most part refrained from posting the evidence online. Yet some details have come out little by little. For one thing, contrary to early claims, it does not seem that any babies were murdered by being placed alive in microwave ovens. Yes, it is all but certain that individual acts of wanton cruelty occurred, but let us look at some actual numbers: specifically, rapes and murders.
But we are going to analyze those in the context of what we will presume, for the sake of argument, to have been a “military operation” whose purpose was the taking of hostages for the “legitimate” purpose of negotiating the release of the detainees being improperly held in Israeli prisons. What are the numbers? And how do they compare with the numbers from our Gaza operation? You should stop reading right now if you don’t like where this is going. . . .
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Okay, let us continue. Of the 1200 Israeli casualties, 373 were members of security forces. That’s almost a third. So 800 deaths were civilians…that would be what we call “collateral damage” when they are Palestinian deaths. Then let us call them the same when they are ours. We pride ourselves on the low ratio of “collateral damage” we inflicted on Gaza, claiming 20 to 30 thousand armed combatants out of 70,000 total casualties. Well, then evidently our ratio of “collateral damage” is not better than that of Hamas.
(And by the way, how do we count the three unarmed Israeli escapees we killed? If they had turned out to be Arabs would they have been counted as enemy combatants (despite being unarmed) or merely as “collateral damage”? Clearly, we had no compunction about killing unarmed individuals who might have had concealed weapons. Should Hamas have been more scrupulous than us in terms of who they killed in the course of their operation?)
Now let’s look at some percentages. The biggest single site for casualties was the Nova festival, where some 350 were killed….about 10 percent of the total number there. After that, some nearby kibbutzes and settlements were hard hit…Kibbutz Be’eri, 132 dead out of a population of 1,000; Kfar Aza, 80 out of 800 (some of those were security personnel); and communities like Nir Oz, Nahal Oz, and Kissufim: 170 out of 1100.
So the numbers killed in the most heavily hit communities was 10 to 15 percent. These are devastating numbers but they are hard to reconcile with the claim that Hamas intended to murder every single Jew they could lay their hands on. Israeli resistance was stiff in many of these locales, as evidenced by the high number of military casualties. So many of the civilian deaths must have been, (once again from the point of view of Hamas) “collateral damage”.
We all know the story of the one killer who boasted gleefully of having killed ten Jews all by himself. But if we reckon that at least half the civilian casualties were “legitimate” (by the same definition we used for civilian casualties in Gaza), that they were merely “collateral damage”, then no more than two to three hundred civilian deaths would have been gratuitous murders. Those murders could have all been plausibly committed by no more than 30 to 50 of the six thousand invaders in total….less than one percent. Yet in the post-ceasefire world, it remains our declared intention to kill every invader who participated in October 7th.
What about women and children? Women were close to 300 civilian casualties out of 800. Children….perhaps 40 altogether, including exactly seven under the age of six. How many of the 70,000 casualties in Gaza were children under the age of six? We cannot know the true figure with any certainty, but it is hard to believe that the comparison would favor Israel on a percentage basis.
What about rape? There is little doubt that rapes took place at several locations, with many of the victims being subsequently killed. But no actual numbers are readily available. Surely the great majority of the 300 female casualties were mere “collateral damage” and not rape victims. All we can guess is that the number of women raped and then killed could have been anywhere from 10 to 100. But again, these are mere guesses.
Survivors of rape is another story. Only one woman has come forward to publicly testify that she was raped. How many more may have kept quiet or reported their ordeals only privately is unknown. But I would find it hard to believe that in the chaos of the day’s events, that 100 women were raped and only one survived to tell her story out loud. Yes, rape happened. But it could hardly have been on any kind of mass scale. Especially considering the eagerness of the Israeli side to publicize stories of atrocities.
Finally, it is important to remember that this operation was not a “walk in the park” for Hamas. It is said that out of an elite contingent of 3800 fighters, between twelve and fifteen hundred died on Israeli territory. More Arabs than Jews died on October 7th.
Those special forces were followed by perhaps 2000 civilian looters, many of them armed. To the extent that atrocities occurred, it seems highly likely that they came largely from perhaps a hundred individuals out of this contingent of opportunistic marauders, rather than the disciplined forces that were evidently fighting and dying to complete their assigned mission.
And what of the success of the mission itself? If it was intended to give Israel a black eye, it was hardly a failure. And if it was intended to secure bargaining chips in the form of hostages, then the 4000 Arabs released from custody would have to be a win for Hamas. What about the 70,000 dead? Well, we all know that human life means very little to the Arabs. Don’t we? We’ve said it often enough.
If the Arabs don’t regard their own casualties as human beings, maybe it’s time we started to. And going back to where we began this story, with Dr. Rantisi: let’s remember that we are supposed to be responsible for the humane treatment of prisoners. I can’t help but wonder if we haven’t somehow decided to make those who remain in our custody endure extra suffering on behalf of those we were forced to release.
Features
A Sensation at the Bible Contest in Jerusalem
The final of the International Bible Contest, Chidon HaTanakh, takes place every year on Israeli Independence Day (Yom HaAtzmaut). The event is broadcast live across the country, and American contestants appear each year — yet few expect them to win. History, however, records exceptions. In 1988, two teenagers from New York challenged decades of Israeli dominance, and one of them accomplished the impossible.
A TV Quiz Show Where the Subject Is the Bible
Chidon HaTanakh is an annual international competition testing knowledge of the Hebrew Scriptures — something like Jeopardy, except that instead of pop culture, every question revolves around the Torah. It is the country’s largest televised event, followed by the entire nation; the nation’s top officials are invariably present in the hall. Students travel from around the world, yet the balance of power is predictable. In more than half a century of the contest’s existence, only three Americans have taken the top prize. The crown almost always goes to an Israeli.
Why Israel Holds an Almost Permanent Advantage
The reasons for the host country’s dominance are less mystical than pragmatic. In Israel, Chidon is surrounded by state attention and public prestige, especially within the Religious Zionism community. Schools release promising candidates from regular classes for dedicated preparation; some are trained almost from infancy. The Israeli stage covers around 400 chapters from the most demanding books, while the American national qualifier covers roughly 100 from relatively accessible ones. Finally, the language barrier is enormous: absorbing hundreds of chapters of biblical Hebrew is incomparably easier when modern Hebrew is one’s native tongue. The language question frequently proves a stumbling block beyond Israel’s borders as well — kykNET is launching a new show in South Africa, Die 1% Klub, and one of the requirements for participants is knowledge of Afrikaans. This already eliminates a significant proportion of potential contestants from outside South Africa, even though there are formally no citizenship requirements.
For foreigners, the contest is just one of many extracurricular activities; for Israelis, it is a matter of national importance.
A Joke That Turned Out to Be an Accurate Diagnosis
As far back as the 1970s, the celebrated Israeli comedy troupe Lul turned the predictability of the results into a sketch that became widely quoted. “We are at the Chidon final,” gasps the host. “Of 60 contestants, three remain. The Scandinavian has 37 points, the Sudanese has 42, and the Israeli has 473 out of a possible 400. The final question is worth 13 points. Everything can still change!” The sketch captured a cultural phenomenon in which suspense existed only on paper.
A Quiz or a Money Game
The TV quiz show format built around the Hebrew Scriptures fits naturally within Jewish tradition. Competition in Torah knowledge is encouraged, and in religious circles it is perceived as an extension of study. Entertainment shows built on gambling are a different matter. The wheel of fortune, bets, multipliers, and cash prizes — as seen in Playtech Live Game Shows, information about which is publicly available — are also presented as televised spectacle complete with a studio and a charismatic host. From a religious standpoint, however, the picture is more complex. To simplify greatly and set aside the distinctions between streams of Judaism: the dividing line runs through money. A person who simply watches the broadcast as entertainment and risks nothing is not participating in gambling. One who places a wager is playing, and under halakha such conduct is either prohibited or, in more lenient interpretations, condemned. In Chidon, only points and reputation are at stake, and the only thing a contestant can wager is years of preparation. In 1988, those years unexpectedly outweighed decades of Israeli tradition.
The Exception That Happened in 1988
That year, two American teenagers arrived in Jerusalem not as also-rans. Jeremy Wieder and Noah Feldman were considered genuine contenders for the title. Both knew the material down to the finest detail. But the story of their rivalry ended in a way no one had predicted.
The American Qualifier, Where the Favorite Was Not the Future Champion
The national Chidon in the United States is divided into four divisions: two each for middle and high school, separately in English and in Hebrew. The strongest contestants typically emerge from the senior Hebrew-language division. In June 1987, that division was won by Feldman — with a near-perfect score. Wieder finished second. Contest organizer Dr. Mitchell Orlian noted that the gap between them was negligible, though the American program’s scope was considerably narrower than the Israeli one.
Who Wieder and Feldman Were
Wieder grew up in Monsey, New York, in the family of a physics professor. He studied at the Ashar and Spring Valley yeshivas and then at the Yeshiva University boys’ high school. An experienced synagogue Torah reader, he was competing in the international final for the first time and was remembered by rivals as someone who “simply knew everything.”
Feldman came from an academic family in Cambridge, Massachusetts; his parents taught at Harvard and MIT. He attended Maimonides School in Brookline and displayed intellectual brilliance from an early age. He won the national qualifier having lost only half a point — he had confused the dimensions of two sets of curtains of the Tabernacle. “I was off by about a cubit and a half,” he recalled later.
A Year of Preparation, Two Different Approaches
From September 1987, Wieder — who had enrolled early at Yeshiva University — devoted at least one hour each day to reviewing the material. His foundation was a thorough knowledge of the Pentateuch, which made up a third of the program, but the remaining sections required months of additional work.
Feldman structured his preparation differently. His school released him from classes during the Prophets (Nevi’im) period, and he used the 42-minute slot to memorize texts with traditional cantillation. In the final months, he discovered in the Harvard library an archive of Chidon questions and answers dating from the 1950s and used it as a training tool.
The Two Weeks Before the Broadcast That Viewers Never See
Foreign participants arrive two weeks before the final. The program includes tours of the country, meetings with rabbis, politicians, and the Prime Minister, and a visit to a military base — all guided by mentors drawn from former finalists. Informally, the whole experience is known as “Tanakh camp” — a project for strengthening Jewish communal bonds around Israel and the biblical text.
It was here that the Americans first grasped the scale of the competition. Among the contestants was a student from behind the Iron Curtain who had arrived with a teacher from Hungary, and Canadian champion Sean Zelig Aster. The Israelis displayed photographic memory: one of them moved a finger across his forehead as if turning pages and recited entire passages from memory. “They were a little frightening,” admitted another American contestant, Jeremy Spierer. Feldman summed up the contrast this way: in America, he had simply been told — “Noah, there’s a Tanakh quiz, you like that sort of thing, go tomorrow.”
The Final at the Jerusalem Theatre and the Role of the Written Exam
On Israeli Independence Day (Yom HaAtzmaut), thousands of spectators filled the Jerusalem Theatre, where in earlier years David Ben-Gurion had personally checked contestants’ answers against his own Bible. Television cameras broadcast every movement on stage.
A significant portion of the contest, however, is decided before the broadcast. Several days before the televised rounds, contestants sit a written exam of 50–60 questions, and the points scored carry over into the final. The questions on stage are made easier so that no one is publicly humiliated, meaning that anyone who loses too many points in the written portion is effectively out of contention before the cameras roll.
In 1988, the written exam proved unusually lenient and even included a multiple-choice section. Several contestants achieved a perfect score. “I was lucky,” Wieder said. “The Israelis knew the material better than anyone, and the only reason I had a chance was the unusually easy written exam.” Sixteen contestants advanced to the televised rounds; Wieder and Feldman were among them.
On stage, the foreign contestants added color: Aster placed a small Canadian flag in front of him, and Feldman, in the Israeli manner, answered with long quotations, reciting a passage from the Song of Songs from memory. Contestants were eliminated one by one, but several maintained a perfect score into the decisive round. The final question was posed, as tradition dictates, by Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir. Contestants were given ten biblical occurrences of the word shalom and asked to identify the source of each and provide commentary. Wieder answered 19 of the 20 points correctly. The result: a tie for first place with an Israeli contestant of Tunisian descent, Zehava Haddad. Aster finished fourth, Feldman fifth.
Shock, Rumors, and Mutual Suspicion
The result triggered a wave of conspiracy theories. The American participants believed that Wieder had in fact won outright, but that the judges had not dared award the gold to a foreigner and had arranged a tie instead. The Israeli side advanced the mirror-image accusation: one of the finalists publicly claimed that the political establishment had wanted the prize to go neither to an Israeli nor to a woman. The organizers rejected both versions.
The Winner Himself Called It Luck
Wieder consistently emphasized that his success was a confluence of circumstances. In a “normal” year, with a rigorous written exam, he would never have reached the final question. Nevertheless, the record stands: the first American victory since 1973, when the prize was taken by Leora Reich of the Flatbush yeshiva in Brooklyn. The next comparable result came only in 2013, when Yishai Eisenberg shared first place.
Two Paths After the Contest
Wieder received rabbinic ordination (semikha) and became the youngest head of the RIETS rabbinical school in Yeshiva University’s history. He also earned a doctorate in rabbinic literature from New York University and today teaches Talmud and Tanakh. “The knowledge of Prophets (Nevi’im) and Writings (Ketuvim) that the preparation gave me has remained a resource for life,” he has noted.
Feldman graduated from Harvard with the highest grade point average in his class, received a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford, completed Yale Law School, and clerked for Supreme Court Justice David Souter. He later advised the Coalition Provisional Authority in Iraq and became a professor at Harvard Law School. He described Chidon as “one of the most important educational experiences of his life,” one that opened access to medieval Hebrew poetry, to English-language literary corpora saturated with biblical allusions, and that deepened his inner connection to a foundational text.
A Rare American Victory Still Debated Today
Over more than half a century of Chidon HaTanakh history, Americans have won only a handful of times. The 1988 final stands out against the backdrop of prolonged Israeli dominance for several reasons at once: an anomalously lenient written exam that for the first time opened a genuine path to victory for foreign contestants; a tie for first place that some considered fair and others politically motivated; and two careers that grew from a single youthful competition.
