The Hired Girl(89)

Mr. Rosenbach asked, “So he’s giving you religious instruction? I thought you were already a Catholic.”

“I am, really,” I explained, “on the inside. My mother was a Catholic. But I’ve never been confirmed.”

Mr. Rosenbach leaned back in his chair. “Interesting, isn’t it, how often we inherit our religion from our mothers? In Judaism, you know, the birthright of faith comes from the mother. A Jew is the child of a Jewish woman.”

I said, “Yes, sir,” but my mind had gone on ahead. I wondered if this might be a good time to broach the subject of the True Faith. I hadn’t planned on talking about it so soon, but here we were, talking about religion. I might not get so good an opportunity again. I said hesitantly, “Father Horst says the Jews deny Christ.”

“That is true,” Mr. Rosenbach said serenely. “I believe your Jesus lived, of course. He was a real man, and I’m sure He was a good man. But I don’t believe He was God, and I don’t think He was the Messiah.”

It took me a minute to figure out that word Messiah. I always think of it as Mess-EYE-uh, but he pronounced it Mss-SHEE-ock. My eyes rested on Mr. Rosenbach as I worked it out. He’d kicked a footstool into place, and he was regarding me with interest, as if he was enjoying our conversation. And yet — it struck me then, and it struck me cold — hellfire yawned before him. “Mr. Rosenbach,” I said urgently, “don’t you ever feel that Jesus Christ was the Son of God?”

“No, I don’t,” answered Mr. Rosenbach. “I believe in one God, only one God. But you raise an interesting question, one I have often pondered.” He crossed his legs and gazed up at the ceiling. “Can the truth be divined through intuition? In other words, when we feel something is true, does it follow that our feelings are trustworthy? Plato, of course, tried to establish a method of argument based on geometry —”

I was curious about Plato, but I wasn’t going to be led off the track. “Mr. Rosenbach,” I persisted, “have you ever gone off by yourself and tried to feel that Jesus Christ is your Savior? Maybe if you were to go somewhere quiet, and sit still and open your heart to Him, you might be saved from damnation. Don’t you think it might be a good idea to try?”

“Miss Lovelace,” said Mr. Rosenbach — he spoke kindly but laughter lurked in his eyes —“have you ever gone off to a quiet place, and sat very still, and tried to imagine that Jesus Christ is not your Savior?”

“I couldn’t do that!” My hands flew up; I found I was clutching my heart. “Not after He died for me! It would be awful! It would be treachery.”

Mr. Rosenbach bowed his head. “Religion has much to do with loyalty.” He was quite serious now. “I can never decide if loyalty is a different substance from faith, or the same thing. Please understand, Miss Lovelace: I’m not asking you to betray the God you worship. I’m only asking you to put yourself in my shoes. I am as convinced of the truth of my faith, and as bound to be loyal to it, as you are to yours. I don’t think either of us should turn apostate.”

I didn’t know what an apostate was, but I looked it up this evening. I thought it would be like an apostle, but it’s just the opposite. An apostate is someone who turns his back on his faith.

I said, “But what if you — I mean, where will you go when you die?”

“We Jews do not worry about hell. Nor do we talk much about heaven. It’s enough for us to know that God keeps faith with those who sleep in the dust.”

I thought that was a beautiful phrase. I tried to imagine a life that wouldn’t end in heaven or hell or Purgatory. It seems to me that if there were no hell, you wouldn’t have to behave yourself too much. The funny thing is that the Jews do behave themselves. They go to a lot of trouble for their God, keeping kashrut and putting money into all those little charity boxes. There’s something very fine and disinterested in being good when there’s nothing to be gotten out of it. I blurted out, “I think Judaism is a noble religion.” And I do, but I also think it’s not very profitable. I’d rather go to heaven when I die.

Mr. Rosenbach looked pleased. He left his chair and went to the bookcase. “I wonder if you’d like Plato? His Socratic dialogues are like little plays. I think you would find them stimulating. Tell me, how did you enjoy Marcus Aurelius?”

I was tempted to lie. “Not very much,” I admitted. “I couldn’t seem to get through it. I thought Marcus Aurelius was awfully stuck on himself. And he never got excited about anything.”