1940 Bang and Olufsen 40 'Beolit'

Every once in a while, someone will try to fix me up with another man. Now, this is not because I am 63, and have never been married. It is because I play golf.

This always ends up being someone’s uncle or father or grandfather who, like me, spends the winter in Florida. Nothing could interest me less than spending four hours with a complete stranger and that is usually what I tell them. They will ordinarily counter with, “I think you two would get along.” I then explain that I do not want to get along. I have more than my share of golf partners.

There are however, a handful of people in my life to whom I cannot say no. One is my dear friend Dani who, along with being my close friend, was also the first employee at Tumbleweed. She began her email by saying ‘please, please, please don’t feel under any obligation to say yes.’

Which, right away, means there is no chance I can say no.

The email continues with ‘my sister’s rabbi is coming to Florida...’ I then maybe passed out.

When I came to, the gist of the favor was that the rabbi was coming to Florida and he loved golf and could I maybe play golf with him. And then something about how nice he was with one of the kid’s bar mitzvah or something, and ‘really, feel free to say no,’ and ‘the only reason I am even considering it is that his parents were from Egypt and you might get a good story out of it.’

His name was Rabbi Dan. Rabbi Dan.

‘It would be my pleasure,’ I said.

‘It’s ok if it’s only 9 holes,’ Dani said.

18 was never an option. But I didn’t tell her that. The rabbi had a slice. A bad slice.

We had only played three holes and he had already hit two houses.

Aside from when I play with my brother, I don’t give any unsolicited advice or instruction on the golf course. I don’t like to get it, and I live by the rule of treat someone like you want to be treated.

If the Rabbi was my brother, I might have said, ‘listen rabbi, maybe you want to line up facing a little left because all your shots are going to the right and maybe you want to compensate a little.’

But he was not my brother. He was Rabbi Dan.

So, I said nothing.

I did have what I thought was a pretty good joke about how you are only supposed to lean right on Passover but, although I thought it was funny, I didn’t really know Rabbi Dan well enough to be telling this type of joke.

Also, I wasn’t entirely sure if you were supposed to lean right or to lean left. So, I said nothing.

Rabbi Dan, dressed in golf attire, his new Boca Grove golf cap covering his kippah, did not look like a rabbi. He looked like a golfer. Albeit a bad one.

My brother-in-law, who is, I think, more orthodox than Rabbi Dan, once went kayaking at the cottage in the white shirt and black pants, and his long beard, which are the traditional garb of the orthodox Jew. Although he was a very good kayaker, he still looked like an Orthodox Jew. Had another Jewish kayaker come across him on the lake on that Sunday morning, he might have felt compelled to wish him a good week, a shavuah tov, which is the common greeting.

Rabbi Dan was clean shaven, and aside from the fact that he played like someone who spent the majority of his hours conducting his rabbinical duties instead of, say, going to the driving range and trying to fix his slice, there was nothing about him that made him look like a rabbi.

Despite not being very good, he was having a wonderful time, and since we spent the first nine holes only talking about golf and he didn’t once ask me why I didn’t go to synagogue, I decided we would play 18 holes. He didn’t thank me for playing 18 holes because that is what he assumed, and it is a fair assumption when one is invited to play golf, but I had a page full of ‘I can only play 9’ excuses.

None of which I had to use.

I say we played 18, but in truth, we only played 17 because my house backs into 17 and I suggested we stop there and grab a beer. Sometimes my guests are not too thrilled about stopping one hole early - often because they are keeping score so they want to finish the course. Which always irritates me because it is not as if, without exception, they are on their way to shooting the best round of their life which is, to me, really the only reason to play 18, because you know, my house is right there.

I said this to Rabbi Dan after he quickly and readily accepted my offer for a beer and then, since Rabbi Dan had, in addition to a bad slice, a pretty good sense of humor, he asked what the record for the number of houses hit in a round was. I laughed and said he was close but not that close and besides, number 18 doesn’t have any houses.

We took a picture of ourselves on the green of number 17 and I sent it to Dani.

It had been a relatively painless, if pressed, I might even say enjoyable afternoon and, I’m not sure if Hashem grants extra points for playing golf with a rabbi, but if he does, and if he is a fair almighty, I think there should be extra points for playing with a rabbi who has a bad slice.

But I wasn’t in this for the points, for Dani or Hashem. I’m just saying.

Rabbi Dan downed his beer in nearly one gulp. Pretty impressive for a clergyman.

He made appropriate remarks about my radio collection - impressed but not overly effusive.

I prefer overly effusive but I’m guessing this was a Rabbi thing. He can’t play favorites with his congregants.

He thanked me again and was about to leave, when he spotted the 1940 Bang and Olufsen Beolit perched on the top shelf of my display in the living room.

“We had that radio in our house in Cleveland growing up,” he said. “My father, alav ha shalom, schlepped it all the way from Cairo.”

This was the first time either of us had mentioned that we had parents who were from Egypt.

It seemed a little weird, to me at least, that Rabbi Dan had drunk his beer, wandered around my collection, and not once mentioned - which is the default statement of people when they see my radios - that he too grew up with a vintage radio.

I went to the bathroom and when I came back, he handed me his phone. In my short absence he had found a family photo. Sure enough, there was Rabbi Dan’s family posing around the radio.

It was a nice example of that model. Unlike mine, where half of one of the four front nobs is missing. “You still have it?” I asked.

“Unfortunately not, got lost in one of our moves.”

“Shame,” I said. “Would you mind sending me that photo? If it’s ok, I’ll add it to my website.”

“My pleasure,” he said.

“Must have been his pride and joy for him to have brought it all this way with him,” I said.

Then Rabbi Dan said something which really, really surprised me.

“Not really,” he replied, “it was a radio which he kept to remind him of his shame.”

“Shame?” “Yes.” We both stood there in silence. Me, waiting. Then Rabbi Dan said, “this will cost you another beer. If you have the time.”

I had the time.

Rabbi Dan took a long pull of his second beer. Then he burped in a very unclerical fashion.

“I’m going to guess that the date Nov 29, 1947 means something to you.”

It did. It was the date the United Nations voted on the Palestine partition plan. It was the day that made Herzl’s dream real. For me, it was a holy day. Along with May 14, 1948, it was one of my two holy days on the calendar.

“Partition vote,” I said.

“My grandfather was in textiles. Import and export. He had a big supplier in the UK. The supplier sent him a Danish radio during the war. It was a token of friendship. Because of how the Danes treated the Jews. He knew my grandfather would appreciate it.”

“But that’s a lovely story,” I said, “why the shame?”

“That comes later. Listen, you maybe have something to nosh on?” I brought him some peanuts.

“And so?”

“The radio became the focal point of the living room. It was, it is,” he pointed at my radio, “an absolutely beautiful radio. It also became the focal point of the neighborhood. My father and his friends would gather around listening to the BBC. Then, when the broadcast was over, they would switch the channel back to Egyptian music.”

“Umm Kulthum,” I said, naming the venerable Egyptian singer and only one I knew.

“Yes,” he said, helping himself to a handful of peanuts. “On Nov 29th, he and his regular crew gathered around to listen to the results of the voting. The assembly had tried to vote a few days before but there was going to be another vote. The Zionist contingent were twisting more arms.”

I knew the story well. Some of the tales - like the Jewish pineapple king influencing Latin American votes - were legendary. Some were apocryphal. And some were fabrications. It didn’t matter. It was an easy win. In our family, my father had pounded the names of countries and how they voted, into our heads. 33 for, 13 against, 10 abstentions. Haiti was good. India was bad.

“It worked,” I said.

“Baruch Hashem, praised be God,” he replied. Ok. Now he sounded like a rabbi.

“So what was the problem?”

“My father, alav ha shalom, may he rest in peace, was hoping the No vote would win. He was recently married, with a baby on the way. He had joined the family business and was doing well. The Egyptian representative to the UN, along with other Arab delegates, vowed that Jewish blood would flow in retribution. My father wanted the status quo. Did not want to rock the boat. Our family had survived and even prospered in Egypt for generations.”

“He was not wrong,” I said gently. “If anything, he was prescient.”

“Yes, my family lost it all. In the end, with no business and no prospect of jobs and constant anti-Semitism, they left after the 1956 war.”

“Mine too. Where did they go?”

“Israel. Via Rome.”

“Mine too,” I said.

“Then Cleveland.”

“And he brought the radio with him?”

“Everywhere. To remind him of that moment.”

“I don’t think it is anything to be ashamed of,” I said.

“Me neither,” said Rabbi Dan, “but it was a good reminder. Of what he had. But also, of what he didn’t have.”

I nodded. I wish I knew where my father, where my uncle, had listened to the news. Had they been scared and worried of the results? Had they danced in the streets? I don’t know. I don’t think there is anyone left to ask. In 1952 there were assurances from Nasser and his henchmen that the Jews would be safe.

But the assurances were short lived.

The rabbi shook my hand and made his way to the door.

“I’m back in six weeks,” he said, “I’ll give you a call to see if you want to play.”

“It would be my pleasure,” I replied.

But it was one call I was going to screen. Rabbi Dan had a really bad slice.

The End