At precisely 5:16 A.M. on the last Wednesday in May, 1978, I had been blissfully sleeping in the Ritz Hotel Chicago when Deborah’s phone call woke me. There was panic in her voice. “Is something wrong with Eli?” I asked. “No, no, Danny. It’s Papa—” “Is he sick?” “Not yet, but I think this scandal may kill him,” she replied. “He’s been meeting with the elders all night.” “Hey, it’s dawn,” I protested, growing ever more afraid. “Has the synagogue been vandalized?” “In a way. Papa’s been betrayed by one of his rabbis. And I’ll give you one guess who the bastard is.” “Schiffman in Jerusalem?” I ventured. “Let his name be erased forever!” Deborah spat out the supreme curse of our faith. “What’s he done? Calm down or I won’t be able to understand.” “You’ll understand, all right,” she said bitterly. And then she told me everything. It seems the outwardly ascetic Rebbe Schiffman had been “borrowing” from our funds for years.
