Knowing Not to Ask

We knew that Sam and Dora would come every Motzaei Shabbos or Sunday morning, depending on the time of year. We knew that my father, a congregational rabbi who was always running somewhere and was rarely found at home, would be there to receive them. We didn’t know why Sam and Dora came weekly, but we knew we weren’t supposed to ask.

They would sit around the large expanse of our dining room table. Dora, the all-American, finely dressed down to fingernails painted a delicate light pink, would sit next to Sam. He made a valiant attempt to broadcast a nonimmigrant image, but his thick Yiddish accent and no-airs personality betrayed his European roots.

My mother, although a born-and-bred Bostonian, couldn’t compete in attire on a rabbi’s salary. She sat near my Polish father, ever the gracious hostess, but seldom took part in the conversations. Yiddish was the spoken language between all, but most of the give-and-take ping-ponged between Sam and my father.

I grew up from toddler to teenager with the scene playing out week after week. On rare occasions, the couple would bring their youngest son with them. He was the same age as my oldest brother. With his blond curls and blue eyes, Mark could have been a poster boy for a dyed-in-the-wool, seventh-generation Yankee. He had little in common with our yeshivish brood.