I think of that strange, unforgettable moment as “the day when I had to choose between being a Jew or being a parent.” Such a choice may evoke terrible images, the Inquisition, the Nazis. But no, my choice was . . . relatively light, and, in a way, full of tenderness and humor.
To relate it I need to frame it. My wife, Lynne, and I, like many middle-class professional parents in Manhattan, sent our children, Nathan, our oldest, and Nina, five years younger, to a private school. The school population was typical Manhattan: many Jewish children, and among those, children both from religious and nonreligious households.
To give real meaning to the story I should recall a somewhat distressing moment that had occurred shortly before the events I relate here. Nathan was not yet 13 and beginning to attend or hear about the bar mitzvahs of classmates.
“You guys,” he said, “are Jews only in name. I should call you ‘Gastronomic Jews.’ ” We instantly had a clear notion of what he meant. Either at my parents’ or at our own home we had great Rosh Hashana or Passover dinners. They did involve ritual, but it was minimal.
Many years later, in college, Nathan met Miriam and began actively practicing his Judaism in a Reform group. Now Nathan and Miriam are married. He is not just religious but much more religious than we ever could have imagined. It is then especially meaningful that Nathan remembers, humorously and tenderly, the story I am telling here.
Nina was 7. She was very popular but had a few special friends, one, Rhoda, who lived in Riverdale. Because we live on the Upper East Side, it was complicated for them to have dates. Thus, the relationship had a vaguely melancholic tone of longing from the very beginning.
Against that background, and when they had been friends for over two years, during a terrible winter storm, we learned of a tragedy. There had been a car accident, and Rhoda, with an aunt who had been visiting, had been killed. The school notified individually all the parents in her grade. They were immensely sensitive. They assured us that they would offer all the support necessary to the children in her grade, most specially to those who had been closest to Rhoda.
Indeed, they were helpful, yet Nina was sad for a long time, cried a lot, and asked many questions: “Where is Rhoda now?” When we answered, new questions emerged: “Is the place in the cemetery the same for people who die in an accident as if they die of being very old? Is there a cemetery for just children?” For a while Nina was afraid to get into our car.
We had a lovely live-in maid, Teresa. She was Dominican, had been with us since Nina was 2 months old, and adored her. After Rhoda died, Teresa spent a lot of extra time playing with Nina, chatting, comforting her. We would see them together, talking softly, as Teresa went about some of her chores. I remember glimpsing one very tender moment as Teresa incongruously was poking garlic slivers into a roast, and suddenly she wiped her hands, put an arm around Nina’s small shoulders, and whispered something into her ear.
From time to time, Teresa would report to us, “Nina is better, she is not so sad.”
So, it came to happen that one weekend afternoon, seeing Nina looking very pensive, gazing at the park out of our living room window, my wife asked her, “You look sad, Nina dear, are you thinking about Rhoda, my sweetheart?”
Lynne told me the story later, as I was in my study at the time, preparing for a lecture.
Nina looked up, startled, and answered, “No, Mommy, I was thinking about an argument some kids had in school. You know, Mommy, you don’t have to worry about me, I have been talking a lot with Teresa, and I am no longer sad about Rhoda, not at all. I know Rhoda is in heaven. She is with the Virgin Mary and the baby Jesus.”
Lynne was too stunned to say anything. I wonder what her face registered. Did she awkwardly clear her throat? Utter an astonished “Uh”? At any rate, she did not run to my study. In the evening, as soon as we were alone, she told me about it.
She was agitated. “We are hopeless as Jewish parents,” she said. “Already Nathan warned us, we have neglected any notion of shaping the children’s identity, most certainly hers. We seem to have avoided telling her who she actually is.”
I tried to reassure her. “She knows she’s Jewish,” I said.
Nothing worked. She was adamant. “I will find it hard to sleep until we correct this,” she said, on the verge of tears. “She is much more sensitive to you, and admires you, so you are the one who has to talk to her, tell her, explain to her who we are, who she is.”
I found myself between amused and slightly irritated. “You feel so strongly, why aren’t you the one to speak with her?” We argued for a while. Finally, I relented. “All right,” I promised, “but I have to find the right moment.”
And indeed, it took a while. But I did. We had gone to the park and she had mentioned some flowers that she and Rhoda had especially liked. So, I gave the introduction. “You know darling . . . Mommy told me. . . .” Then I proceeded, telling her what Lynne had told me.
“But no matter who told you this, it is not what we believe. We are Jews. You know something about Jews, you have heard Grandpa and Grandma talk about going to temple. You know about Passover. You have heard us tell the story of Exodus. We are Jews. We do not have a Christmas tree, we celebrate Hanukkah. You do know all that. So, we do not believe in the Virgin Mary or in the baby Jesus.”
She had listened to me very quietly, with those beautiful hazel eyes fixed on me. When I paused, there was a surprisingly longish, and for me awkward, silence. She looked very pensive.
Then, looking into my eyes, speaking slowly, deliberately, in a way that perhaps sounded compassionate, no, was compassionate, obviously toward me, she declared: “You know, Daddy, you, and Mommy believe what you want to believe. I believe what I want to believe.”
I was stunned. Some voice (obviously in great part Lynne’s) told me I should argue. But my love for Nina prevailed.
“Mmm,” I mumbled. Then I said, “We’ll talk about this again. . . .”
I went back to Lynne, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. I looked her straight in the eye and declared: “Honey, I do not doubt at all what her future holds. She will be a lawyer, and later a diplomat. We should put her in touch with Arafat and Rabin.”
And that moment is so present in my mind today, because she has been accepted to Harvard Law School.
Irene Cairo was born in Buenos Aires and received her medical education there. She is a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst in private practice in New York City and lives part time in Springs. In 2022 she published a book of short stories, “Inside-Out: Intimate Voices.”