A Chosen Few - Mark Kurlansky [101]
He would also grab them, scouring the Pletzl on a Saturday morning for a few loose Jewish men to fill up the minyan, or quorum. Soon he had no problem with minyans, but he would still grab people. “Come stay with me” he would say. Some people avoided the Pletzl because of Rav Rottenberg. Others became daily members of the Rue Pavee community. He would grab them, house them, teach them, arrange their marriages, then teach their children. His fanaticism was blended with love and a tireless enthusiasm. He could instill fear and then surprise people with his tolerance.
He ran around, stuck his head in everywhere, and knew everything that was going on. One man whom he had pulled in studied in his group every night for two years, then finally got the courage to confess that his wife was not Jewish. This was a terrible confession to a man like Rottenberg. It meant their children would not be Jewish, and for all the man's studying, his Jewish line would end. But Rottenberg only nodded and said, “I know that.” Henri Finkelsztajn, who did not go to synagogues and was never going to be grabbed, still loved the sight of Rottenberg. He thought this tall, elegant, dark-coated rabbi with the long beard darting through the narrow streets was a welcome addition to the old Pletzl.
Rottenberg, of course, still liked to be “a troublemaker.” When Henri Schilli, a Grand Rabbi of France, died, a funeral procession was arranged with a Rothschild baron in the lead. In France, Rothschilds always lead anything run by the Consistoire Israelite, the central Jewish authority in France. It is with good reason that the Consistoire's synagogue is commonly referred to as “the Rothschild synagogue.” But Chaim Rottenberg did not think a rabbi's funeral should be led by a man who was not a rabbi or even a religious Jew by Rottenberg's standard. He walked in front of the baron so that he himself was then leading the procession—in his words, “out of respect for the torab.”
LAZARE BOUAZIZ was now a Parisian dentist, and he maintained the religious practices of his father's rabbinical household in Oran. He was active in an organization that arranged vacations with kosher food and Sabbath observation. The hope was that Jews would meet on these trips and marry. Intermarriage has long been a great threat to the continuance of French Jewry. In 1965, Bouaziz led a group tour in Greece and met Suzy Ewenczyk, daughter of Fania and Emmanuel. Two years later, they decided to get married, which was to be exactly what Lazare's organization wanted to happen. The problem was that many Jews saw this match as a mixed marriage between a Sephardi and an Ashkenazi.
To the Ashkenazim, a Sephardi was still a strange and very different kind of Jew. But Bouaziz had been around Ashkenazim for many years and had no problems about marrying one. His parents were not particularly happy about the marriage, but he had a brother who had already married an Ashkenazi, so they were coming to accept the idea. Emmanuel Ewenczyk does not recall the marriage presenting any great problem, but Suzy and Lazare remember it very differently.
“It was a big, big problem,” Suzy said. “My parents were not at all happy.” They did not discuss their unhappiness with her but instead sent friends and Fania's mother, all of whom carried the message, “It's not the same thing when you marry a Sephardi. They are good people and well-educated, but it is just not the same.”
IN 1958, De Gaulle's Fifth Republic came to power with a new constitution. The minister of culture, Andre Malraux, a war hero and respected intellectual,