Fishin’
for the Truth -- this story was published in my book, Bridging the Golden Gate, purchasing details on top of page.
This
is a true story, as told to me by Judy. Today, Judy is happily married and the
mother of a large family. She lives on a small moshav north of Jerusalem . Her parents –
very dear friends of mine -– moved to the same moshav after they retired.
George and Roberta were brutally murdered late one night by a marauding raccoon
(yes, you read that right).
It all
began while I was studying at a prestigious college in Southern
California . I wasn’t exactly what you would call the studious
type, and I probably gained more from the dorm experience (and believe me, it
really was an experience) than from my college classes, which, on the whole,
consisted of such courses as “The Political Aspirations of the Indians in the
Late 1800s” and “Understanding the Id Within You.” It would have been more
advantageous for me to have taken “Basic Basket Weaving” or “Home Economics
II,” but at the time, I imagined myself to be somewhat of an intellectual.
It was
around two o’clock in the
morning and I had just fallen into a deep sleep when my roommate, Marge, started
shaking me and yelling in my ear. “Judy! Judy!” she screamed.
I rolled
over and opened half an eye. “What’s the matter?” I mumbled.
“The
pond in front of our dorm,” she gasped. “There’s a large machine there, sucking
out the water. It looks like a gigantic Dracula.”
“Were
you were planning to go swimming tonight?” I asked incredulously, before
pulling the blanket over my head and turning to face the wall.
“Judy,
WAKE UP. This is an emergency!” She was shouting directly into my ear.
“What’s
the matter?” I was beginning to realize that I would not get anymore sleep that
night.
“Those
poor fishies in that pond; they'll die if we don’t do something to save them.
This is our chance to really do something meaningful with our lives, Judy.
Don’t you see? We’re the only ones who can save those poor animals from
extinction. This is our chance; it’s up to us,” she concluded passionately.
I jumped
out of bed, ready to save the world.
Within
seconds, we raced out of our dorm and stood opposite the workers, who were
coldly obeying orders and destroying the homeland of those poor innocent fish.
I tried
addressing their sense of right and wrong. “Sirs,” I began, remembering the
importance of always being respectful and tolerant, especially when trying to
show another person that what they are doing is absolutely immoral. “I
understand that you have families to support, and cannot afford to lose your
source of income, but just think of those poor innocent fish who are also
trying to survive. Couldn’t you show some compassion and STOP REMOVING THE
WATER FROM THE POND?”
Although
I tried to remain calm, I was so upset that I almost clobbered the workers as I
screamed the last sentence at the top of my lungs.
The men
just shrugged their shoulders, smiled (that really infuriated me) and continued
with their job.
“Marge,”
I said, all the while staring pointedly at the workers, “I don’t think we
really have any choice at this point. We’ll just have to wait for them to
finish and then save whatever fish manage to survive this … this …” I had no idea
what word I could use to describe this horrible deed. But I was enough of a Jew
to realize that the term “holocaust” was inappropriate.
Both
Marge and I plunked ourselves down on the grass overlooking the pond and
between wiping our tears with the backs of our hands and shooting cold glances
at the heartless workers, we kept a what-was-left-of-the- night vigil. Every
once in a while we quietly started humming “We Shall Overcome.” We felt
extremely righteous.
The
workers left at around five o’clock
in the morning. Marge and I inched our way down to the now-empty pond,
expecting to see dozens of dead or dying fish at the bottom. Instead, there was
only one rather large carp lying perfectly still on top of the damp rocks.
“I think
we’re too late,” sobbed Marge.
“It
certainly looks that way,” I whispered.
The fish
chose just that moment to flip into the air.
“I think
she’s dying,” I gasped.
“We’d
better do something quick.”
“But how
can we pick her up?” I asked.
“We’ll
have to use our hands.”
“Ugh.”
“Remember,
this is our chance to really make a difference. If we don’t save this fish,
then no one will,” Marge explained passionately. “Perhaps, well, I know this is
going to sound a bit superstitious, but Judy… maybe… maybe this is the reason
that God decided to put us into this world. I’m not religious, so I really
don’t believe in such things, but something deep inside of me, something deep
in my soul, is telling me that each person must have a purpose in life. Perhaps
this is it.”
“To save
a fish?” I asked incredulously. But when I saw the pained look on Marge’s face,
I realized that my words had been inappropriate. Marge had shared her deepest
feelings with me, and I had not taken her seriously.
“You
know,” I continued in a gentle voice, “you really do have a point there.” And
with that, I slithered into the depths of the pond and grabbed the slimy fish
with my bare hands.
“I’ve
got it!” I yelled triumphantly.
We raced
across the lawn and bounded up the two flights of stairs to our dorm room.
“Quick, get it into the bathtub!” Marge whispered frantically.
Trying
to be as quiet as we possibly could -– after all, it was not yet six o’clock in the morning –- we ran
into one of the bathrooms and locked the door behind us. I was more than happy
to release the fish while Marge filled the tub with water.
Within
minutes, the fish was contentedly swimming up and down the length of the tub.
“We’ve
done it!” screamed Marge, hugging me exuberantly. Her eyes brimmed with tears
of joy. “We’ve actually done something meaningful with our lives,” she
whispered in awe.
The two
of us left the bathroom in a state of euphoria. We hoped to catch a few more
hours of sleep before classes.
But it
was not meant to be.
Fifteen
minutes later, we were rudely awoken by the sounds of hysterical screaming
coming from the far end of the hall. “The fish!” we both gasped simultaneously
as we jumped out of bed.
Within
seconds we were standing in the bathroom staring at the fish -- which had
jumped out of the bathtub, skidded under the bathroom door and was flipping
back and forth along the white tiled hallway.
I
quickly scooped up the fish (with my bare hands – ugh) and unceremoniously
dumped her back into the water.
“The
show’s over,” Marge announced while wiping all traces of water from the
floor. The girls slowly started to disperse. The two of us dashed back to
our room in an attempt to catch a few more minutes of precious sleep.
But as I
realize now, that was simply not bashert. Instead of attending classes
(no great loss, believe me), we ended up spending the entire morning sitting in
the bathroom, picking up the fish and returning it to the water each time it
jumped out of the bathtub.
“Marge,”
I began, after I had scooped up the fish for the umpteenth time. “We just can’t
go on like this. I absolutely must get some sleep.”
“I
know,” she yawned, barely able to keep her own eyes open. “You’ve really got a
point there. If we don’t get some sleep, we’ll collapse. So I guess I'll climb
into bed while you take care of the fish. When I get up, you can go lie down.”
Something
about what she said didn’t seem quite right, but I had no energy left to argue,
and besides, she was already trotting off in the direction of our room.
Later
that night, I decided that Marge and I must have a heart-to-heart talk. We had
to come to a decision. “I think the fish misses its natural habitat. A bathtub
will never do,” I began.
“You’re
right,” Marge mumbled, still half asleep.
“My
parents have a pond in their backyard. Tomorrow morning, let’s drive to their
house and let our dear Fishie spend the remainder of its time on this earth
enjoying the good life in my parent’s pond.”
My
parents owned an enormous mansion set among Redwood trees of Northern
California . I knew that if our fish got bored in the confines of
our pond, it could enjoy itself in our swimming pool or Jacuzzi.
I left
Marge to stand guard while I ran to the public telephone to call my parents. I
asked them if it would be possible for me to bring a friend for the weekend.
“Oh, and by the way,” I continued, trying to sound nonchalant, “we’re bringing
along a fish.”
“A
fish?” my mother asked, puzzled.
“A fish
to put in the pond behind our house,” I replied, before regaling my mother with
the heroic story of how we had rescued Fishie from extermination.
My
mother didn’t say another word.
The next
day we set off on our historical journey to bring the fish to its new home.
“But how
are we going to transport the fish?” Marge asked.
It
occurred to me that lack of sleep was having an effect on Marge’s
problem-solving abilities.
“That
shouldn’t be difficult,” I smiled self-confidently. “I’ll fill my laundry tub
with water, and we’ll put the fish inside. I’m sure it won’t even realize that
anything unusual is going on.”
And so
we set out on our journey. I drove, while Marge sat in the back, holding the
laundry tub steady and gently pushing the fish back into the water every time
it tried to jump out.
The first
hundred miles passed without any difficulties. But just as we were about to pat
ourselves on the back, a truck suddenly pulled in front of the car, forcing me
to jam on the breaks. Everything went flying, including the tub with Fishie in
it.
“She’s
dead!” Marge wailed.
“I am
not!” I pointed out indignantly.
“Not
you,” she explained. “But look at Fishie.”
I
decided to wait for a more auspicious time to have a serious discussion about the
lack of concern Marge had shown for her best friend.
Fishie
was flipping back and forth, desperate for more water. The two inches of liquid
covering the bottom of the car was obviously not enough to sustain our beloved
fish.
We
realized that finding water was a matter of life and death.
I drove
to the nearest exit and started searching for a gas station, while Marge
hovered over the fish, wringing her hand and urging me to hurry. “If we don’t
get her into a bucket of water, she’ll die,” Marge cried.
I pursed
my lips and pressed harder on the gas pedal.
Even
before the car came to a full stop, Marge had jumped out of the back door and
was running frantically towards the gas station attendant. “Water! Quick! It’s
an emergency!” she panted.
The
attendant looked at my car and then at Marge. There was no smoke bellowing out
of the engine. “The hose is over there,” he mumbled, walking away.
Marge
dashed to the hose, while I carefully placed the fish in the laundry tub and
gingerly carried it out to where Marge was impatiently waiting for me.
“Hurry up
or she’ll die.” By now, both the attendant and his friends had stopped whatever
they were doing to stare at us, wide-eyed.
With as
much dignity as we could muster, we filled the tub with water and lugged it
back to the car. I still don’t understand why it didn’t occur to me to drive
the car over to the hose. Perhaps the lack of sleep was taking its toll. But at
least the fish didn’t try any more acrobatics. It was probably too exhausted.
Marge
and I arrived at my parent’s house on Friday afternoon, less than an hour
before sundown. My parents had mentioned to me something about how they had met
a rabbi and that they had started keeping something they called Shabbos. I
assumed that it was some passing fad to keep them busy while they went through
the trauma of middle age.
When I
opened the front door and saw my parents racing madly around the house, I just
looked at my friend with bemusement and whispered, “I’ll put the fish in the
pond and we’ll stay out of everyone’s way.” But the moment my mom caught sight
of me, she stopped whatever it was that she was doing and became my mother
again. “At least that hasn’t changed,” I thought.
Looking
back at that first Shabbos, I realize how difficult it must have been for my
parents as they tried to find their way in the spiritual desert of Northern
California . They tried to share their enthusiasm
for keeping Torah with Marge and me, but we just rolled our eyes and politely
listened to their explanations. We were far more interested in the fate of our
fish than the fate of our souls.
But
still, when I heard Dad sing “Shalom Aleichem" with George and Roberta
(George and Roberta were my parent’s pet cockatoos. My father had taught them
how to sing “Shalom Aleichem” and “Eishes Chayil” and now they joined him –
although slightly off-key -- every Friday night.) I felt something that I could
not define. Today I realize that I had sensed kedusha -- holiness.
Of
course my mom’s food was, as always, delicious, even if it was kosher. I even
partook of her homemade gefilte fish with gusto, without once thinking about
the fate of the poor fish that gave its soul for my gastronomical pleasure.
That
Saturday night, my parent’s synagogue had planned a special melaveh malkah
with a well-known guest speaker. My parents asked Marge and me if we would join
them, and for lack of anything better to do, we agreed.
For me,
that evening was the beginning of something that I can only describe as
revolutionary. Perhaps it was the combination of the rabbi’s inspirational words
after having experienced the beauty of Shabbos, or maybe it was the result of a
vague feeling of emptiness that had been slowly gnawing at my insides. After
all, Marge did have a point when she said, “Something deep inside of me,
something deep in my soul, is telling me that each person must have a purpose
in life.” I couldn’t imagine that it was just to save some fish from
extinction.
After
that weekend, I made a point of coming home as often as possible to spend
Shabbos with my parents. After all, I couldn’t allow Dad to sing with only
George and Roberta to accompany him! I enjoyed those Saturdays so much that
within a few months, I, too, had become hooked on Shabbos.
A year
later, we found Fishie floating belly-side up in my parent’s pond. But by then,
I was not terribly upset. I had found my purpose in life and I didn’t need to
rescue a fish to give my existence meaning.
Oh, and
what ever happened to Marge? Last I heard, she was crusading to save the
whales. But I really haven’t had much time to stay in touch with her. I’ve been
much too busy taking care of my even-by-Israeli-standards large family, thank
God. And no, none of my children are named Fischel.
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