My dad, the closet Talmudic scholar

 

Jack Doppelt

Jan. 27, 2021

[A version of this piece was published under the name Jack Chaim Doppelt on Storied Stuff on June 17, 2020.]

My dad came to the US before WWI and retained a quaint, stiff, accented English in his speech and writing. He became an orthodox rabbi about the time Jewish life was evolving into a more relaxed reform culture. He didn’t get a synagogue pulpit and went into the family leather goods business. 

By the time I came along almost 30 years later, he’d abandoned most pretenses of an orthodox Jewish home. My mom was the one who kept the traditions alive. My dad’s advanced age made it hard for us to do many of the father-son activities of the era. No catch in front of the apartment, no bike riding, no hiking, no camping. We played tennis, just him and me. I cherished it and made the tennis team. He drew fish. We played some chess. He brought home handles from his leather goods business and I sat on the floor and painted them black with newspaper under me. He, my mom and I watched TV every night that I was home. I got to stay up with them for parts of the talk shows after the 10 pm news. We didn't own a record player and didn't play much music in the apartment. 

Friends bought me a record player my first year in college, They delivered it for my birthday. Some drove, some hitchhiked and were picked up by Steve Goodman, the folk singer we all adored. He  happened to be headed to my college to perform, driving a steady 90 mph.

My dad died when I was in college. 

Much of my dad’s past remained a mystery to me. Family secrets can be affixed tight with super glue. I discovered in casual encounters with people that my dad was something special once upon a time. 

“Are you Marcus Doppelt’s son,” someone asked me. “You know that “he was a Talmudic scholar.” 

Not while I was alive, I thought. I got it confirmed by cracking open a corner of the family secrets. I also discovered that my mom and dad were first cousins. My mom had me, an only child, when she was 47. As I’ve often said, I’m about as good as I could have been. 

Not many family mementoes of my dad exist. I’ve preserved the few that do. One cluster has been up on a wall wherever I’ve lived. They commemorate my dad’s “smichas,” a Hebrew word I doubt I’d know the meaning of if it didn’t mark my dad. It refers to the ordination of a rabbi and it means learning, or someone you can rely on because of his learning. 

The other is the family “cose” or kiddush cup that my dad used for 

special occasions like for Friday night Shabbas dinners and for Passover, 

when my dad shined. He’d take a sip and pass it to my mom and me. 

I take it off the shelf to use on those occasions too. I take a sip and pass it along to my wife and kids. 

L’chaim, dad. 

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