2020-08-19 - What If?, Rosencrantz Edition

He sat shiva. He did that much. But when it came time to take up the duties of the man of the house, when it came time for the year of the Mourner’s Kaddish, he refused.

Why should I? he screamed at his gone-pale mother, while his little sister wept in terror. He left us and WHY SHOULD I?

But what if he had?

What if he’d done his duty, said the prayers, gone to services, read from the Torah when called? What if Itzhak Immanuel Rosencrantz, oldest child, only son, violinist with a bad attitude and a temper to match, had done what his family’s religion required?

It wouldn’t be one moment, or one decision. It would be a choice Itzhak made over and over again: a choice to walk to synagogue on Friday, a choice to say hamotzi over bread, a choice to say kiddush after his mother had lit the candles and three stars shone in the evening sky. To cover his head. To wrap himself in the tefillin for morning prayers.

To live the life of a Jewish Orthodox man does not mean, necessarily, goodness. The Jewish gangsters of New York said their prayers and went on to murder their enemies. For Itzhak, there would be no lessening of his attitude or his temper, not at first. There would be no way for him to avoid fighting in the street fueled by rage and despair. He’d still come home with bloodied nose and fists, shirt torn, violin intact by the grace of his ferocity.

And he would never, after his father died, believe in the God he was supposed to be praising.

But would he ever come to Gray Harbor to sacrifice that very violin? He’s always been smart, a real yiddishe kopf, and despite starting violin “late”, demonstrated passion and talent. Could he have gone to MIT, Julliard? He’d always had the aptitudes. Maybe, after a year of the Mourner’s Kaddish, after two years of being the man of the household, he would have had the discipline too.

Making that choice over and over, turning away from the hot fury in his heart, choosing to put that fire out for the good of his family, Itzhak could have learned the bitterest lesson of all: to carry that weight. As the years went on, he would cultivate himself like a bonsai tree, pruning away the imperfections in him, the wildness of his striving soul. He’d learn to be an exemplary son and brother and uncle, a world-class violinist or engineer. He’d tell himself he was happy.

After all, hadn’t he done everything right?