This morning I was driving along a certain highway, in the process of running errands, and as usually happens along this certain route, my mind turned back to a piece of the fairly recent past. Two and a half years ago, I travelled this way to the synagogue for the first time. I had not even known this city had a synagogue, and imagine my surprise when I discovered there were two.
Much soul-searching had led me to this particular route. Today was the first day I would (knowingly) meet a Rabbi. And not just meet him; I inteded to spend at least the better part of an hour speaking with this strange man about something very private and personal. I remember my trepidation entering that synagogue the first time. For some reason, I remember being mildly surprised that the two ladies in the office looked normal, average. The feeling of a dusty old book permeated the air and everything inside.
After a few minutes of nervous waiting, a tall, older man came from the Rabbi’s study, dressed in a grey suit. Clean shaven, with curving, slumping shoulders, and grey hair. His voice was boistrous and carried like a fog horn, but he was jovial and kind, and I soon relaxed as I settled onto a couch in his office.
The office was cluttered. Books and papers everywhere, with classical music drifting in from some unseen source. He asked hard questions, but I had my answers ready. I knew why I had come there that day, and he was surprised that someone as young as myself was so self-possessed and certain of what they desired. At the end of our hour meeting, he agreed that he would help me convert.
I was ecstatic when I reached my car in the parking lot. I called my mother and told her, and she was happy for me. She was worried, naturally, but she supported me. And so once a week, every week, I met with the Rabbi.
I forget exactly for how long we met, but it was several months. 6, in all, I think. He became like a father figure to me, and began to replace my mostly absent father. Occaisonally he would ask questions that made me a little uncomfortable, but I shrugged the doubts off. I remember him asking me if I had been intimate with my boyfriend, and I remember him telling a story of how when he was at seminary school, he and some friends went to a strip joint, and a woman with sagging breasts beat a drum with them. Sometimes he would give me a hug, but it was the kind where he would hug from the side, with just one arm around my shoulders.
One day, I was getting ready for one of our weekly meetings, and the phone rang. I answered, and one of the nice ladies from the office was on the other end. She told me that the Rabbi had had an emergency, and that our appointment for today had to be canceled. No problem, I told her, just have him call me to reschedule when he gets a chance. I finished getting ready, and ran a few miscellaneous errands before going to work for the evening. When I got home, I was in for one of the biggest shocks of my life.
My mom told me to watch the news, and the headline for the night was the arrest of a local rabbi. I watched with horror as they showed clips of him, my Rabbi, in handcuffs being led into the police station, and being booked. And the charges? Perhaps the worst of all of it. I don’t remember exactly how the charges were phrased, but he was accused of touching improperly two young girls, and two teachers at the synagogue’s school.
I have never talked with, or seen him personally again. I have seen him several time on the local news, proclaiming his innocence, until very recently. He arranged a plea bargain. He did this so that his history of previous abuses would not be dredged up. Apparently, he had a long history of sexually molesting young girls, and he didn’t want it all in the media.
For some sick reason, I often wonder why he never tried anything with me. I never wanted him to, of course, but I wonder why I was different. My mom thinks it is because I don’t project the feeling of helplessness that attackers like. But in the twisted regions of my mind, I wonder if it was because I wasn’t good enough. I was about the right age, he had ample access, and my trust. I was never popular in high school, and certainly didn’t have guys beating down my door. Was this the same thing?
Luckily, those thoughts have quickly faded away, though they do occaisonally make a return. Perhaps it is because I feel better about myself than I did then.