From the Publisher
A recent article in The Jewish Review of Books (Spring 2010) lamented the paucity of Jewish fantasy books. While there are no lions symbolizing deities, we now have The Frozen Rabbi. Eliezer ben Zephyr, a nineteenth century mystic, was in a meditative trance when bad weather struck, submerging him in a newly formed pond, where he froze. Bernie Karp is a twenty-first century teenager who discovers ben Zephyr in the freezer in his parents’ basement. When he questions his parents, he learns that the rabbi has been handed down through the family as a sort of talisman. An equally fierce storm hits Memphis, knocking out power, and when Bernie checks on the rabbi, he has defrosted. The book starts with Bernie’s discovery of the rabbi, and proceeds in alternating chapters, catching the reading up on how the rabbi got to Bernie’s basement, then continuing with Bernie’s changing life and the Rabbi’s endeavors. Rabbi ben Zephyr acquaints himself with modern society by watching television all day. He then decides that America is lacking spirituality and convinces Bernie’s father, an appliance salesman, to finance the rabbi’s “House of Enlightenment,” where he will “peddle be-a-ti-tude,” and “also sell a few specialty items on the sidebooks and talismans, red string to ward off the evil eye, everything marked up and elegantly repackaged of course.”
Out of the most bizarre circumstances, things seem reasonable, and part of what makes this book so enjoyable is seeing how Mr. Stern gets his characters from one place to another and how the absurd starts to make sense. Without giving away too much of this romp through modern Jewish history, the rabbi, suspended in ice is passed down, almost like a mesorah. “Yosl King of Cholera from Boibicz, who married Chava Babtcheh, her that died from giving birth to Salo that they called him Frostbissen, who married the sharp-tongued Basha Puah who begot in Lodz first the twins Yachneh and Yoyneh, who ran away to Palestine, then me, Jocheved, who begot in America with my poor husband Shmerl your father Ruben Karp, who was in the Yichud a holy terror before he got wed to his wife that was shlangbissen, snakebit after already she begot you…” The rabbi’s story starts in Eastern Europe, where he is adopted by Salo the iceman. The rabbi then arrives in America, and spends time on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. This part of the book was a little slow, as the scene is set for the next guardian of the rabbi. Bernie learns more by reading his Grandpa Ruby’s diary, which includes a stint in the nascent state of Israel (for Ruby, not the rabbi). Once Ruby returns to Memphis with his orphan son, the past catches up with the present very quickly, with Ruby’s son Julius taking over the appliance business, marrying Yetta, and soon after fathering Bernie and his older sister, Madeline. How does the rabbi stay frozen all this time? That’s the part of the plot that includes inventions, train transport, and contraband.
Most of all, this is a book about transformation and façade. While the rabbi dresses the part and looks like an ancient grandfather, sex plays a major part in his outlook. As he professes to bring spirituality to the masses, it is definitely a commercial venture that includes his memoir, The Ice Sage. Like his ancestor before, Jocheved, who transformed her outward appearance so the extent that it affected her internal working, Bernie also changes. Like Grandpa Ruby, who was at the same time a fearless fighter and a social outcast, Bernie also lives on the edge. He grows from an overweight, apathetic teenager into one whose soul can leave his body and ascend to mystical heights. He researches Jewish history, learns Yiddish, and acquires a girlfriend, who is attracted to him for his ability to leave his body. By the end of the book, he feels comfortable in neither the physical nor the spiritual world, and while the epilogue is quite shocking, I couldn’t imagine this book being neatly wrapped up with a happy ending.While the idea of a rabbi frozen in the 1890’s defrosted over a hundred years later is interesting in itself, the novel has much to offer. The main characters are developed well, and the alternation between third and first person gives perspective while allowing them to “speak for themselves.” There is a strong sense of place, particularly the Lower East Side of the turn of the century and in the graphic description of a pogrom in the shtetl. The language is what makes this more of an intimate history than a story, with the rabbi’s “yinglish” making him sound both wise and wacky at the same time: “So step kvetching and start yentzing [having sex]; this is my advice that I give to you free of charge.” Bernie, as an awkward teenager has little to say, but his internal moments chronicle his spiritual development. In more somber moments, the narration can be poetic, with “trees stooped like peddlers under haversacks of heavy snow.” So, to paraphrase Rabbi Eliezer ben Zephyr, “This is heaven already on the planet of Earth. It’s all in the book…which it’s twenty-four ninety-five retail.” Go and learn!
Kathe Pinchuck, MLIS, has worked in both synagogue and public libraries. A frequent reviewer for the Association of Jewish Libraries Newsletter, she is past chair of the Sydney Taylor Book Award Committee.
“[A] wonderfully entertaining, inventive new novel that evokes Amy Bloom, Michael Chabon and Isaac Bashevis Singer . . . Laugh-out-loud funny, the sort of humor that takes you by surprise.” NPR.org
“A funny, profound and virtuosic work . . . this fast-paced romp through history . . . is a rare enchantment.” San Francisco Chronicle
“In the 25 years since [Stern] published his first book, younger Jewish writers have run with a similar shtick . . . In Jonathan Safran Foer, you see Stern’s fanciful English, in Nicole Krauss his magic realism, in Michael Chabon his updated golems and gun-toting shtarkers. But Stern was there first, and with The Frozen Rabbi it feels like he may be last too: this is a novel so rich, full, funny, dense and exhausting, it feels like there may be no more Steve Stern books left to writeby him, or anyone else.” The Toronto Globe and Mail
“Among the wonders awaiting the reader of Steve Stern’s exuberant new novel . . . is one of sheer logistics: How did he get all of this in here? The book’s 370 pages are packed to bursting with epic adventure and hysterical comedy, with grim poignancy and pointed satire, as Stern repeatedly shifts time and tone to craft a wildly entertaining tale.” The Washington Post Book World
Among the wonders awaiting the reader of Steve Stern's exuberant new novel, The Frozen Rabbi, is one of sheer logistics: How did he get all of this in here? The book's 370 pages are packed to bursting with epic adventure and hysterical comedy, with grim poignancy and pointed satire, as Stern repeatedly shifts time and tone to craft a wildly entertaining tale of the 20th-century Jewish experience and the paradox of tradition.
The Washington Post
A family of long-suffering eastern European Jews protects a frozen rabbi from pogroms, revolution, and racketeers in this intermittently fabulous multigenerational saga. Stern (The Angel of Forgetfulness) uses two narrative threads, one beginning in 1999 when 15-year-old Bernie Karp discovers a body in his family's freezer, the other beginning in 1889 when the rabbi is frozen during a winter storm. With a ferocious grasp of history and Yiddish humor, Stern follows the family of misfits and geniuses as they flee the Lodz ghetto in Poland with their icy cargo, eventually making their way to New York, Palestine, and Memphis, where, in 1999, the rabbi reawakens. Unfortunately, the brilliant Chagall-like eye Stern turns toward the first half of the 20th century is bleary when it glances at the recent past, in which the story concerns itself more with Bernie's inability to lose his virginity and the newly thawed holy man's lecherous and tedious determination to enjoy 1999, which he considers to be heaven on earth. Stern ties both narratives together neatly, but the remarkable characters who cart the frozen rabbi through such vividly realized hells on earth deserve a bolder legacy than the banal one they get. (May)
Yes, this is indeed a novel about a frozen rabbi who thaws in the late 20th century after being found by Bernie Karp, of Memphis, Tenn., in his parents' freezer. Stern (The Angel of Forgetfulness, 2005, etc.) uses his absurdist fantasy to explore issues of faith, secularism and redemption. Bernie, in particular, is in need of the latter, for he's a 15-year-old couch potato with no interest in or regard for his religious heritage. While the novel starts with the recovery of Rabbi Eliezer ben Zephyr from the deep freeze (Bernie's father explains to his bewildered son that "they handed [the rabbi] down from generation to generation"), Stern alternates chapters chronologically, beginning in 1889 when the rabbi, a noted holy man in Tsarist Russia, would meditate by a pond in order to get closer to God. One day a storm came, the water rose, the rabbi continued to meditate and winter eventually arrived, resulting in his being encased in ice. From that point we trace both the history of the Karp family's interaction with the frozen rabbi (in the early 20th century it helped that an earlier Karp had owned a large ice factory) and Bernie's spiritual transformation as a result of his interactions with the Chasidic sage. Bernie begins to lose weight, to have out-of-body experiences and to become intellectually invested in obscure Jewish mystical texts. Meanwhile, the rabbi becomes fascinated with and impressed by life around the year 2000: "Shopping bazaars it's got, and Dodge Barracudos and Gootchie bags made I think from the skin of Leviathan . . . but it ain't got a soul." The rabbi makes a radical attempt to ingest soul into this culture by establishing a "House of Enlightenment" in a strip mallin Memphis. As Bernie's fortunes begin to rise-he even acquires a "trailer trashy" girlfriend sympathetic to his needs-so do the rabbi's decline, resulting in a tragicomic conclusion. An ethnic novel with universal implications.
Read an Excerpt
THE FROZEN RABBI
By STEVE STERN
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Copyright © 2010 Steve Stern
All right reserved.
Chapter One 1999.
Sometime during his restless fifteenth year, Bernie Karp discovered in his parents' food freezer-a white-enameled Kelvinator humming in its corner of the basement rumpus room-an old man frozen in a block of ice. He had been searching for a slab of meat, albeit not for the purpose of eating. Having recently sneaked his parents' copy of a famously scandalous novel of the sixties in which the adolescent hero has relations with a piece of liver, Bernie was moved to duplicate the feat. No stranger to touching himself, he hardly dared to dream of touching another, so inaccessible seemed the flesh of young girls. His only physical intimacy so far had been with his mother's Hoover, innumerable pairs of socks, and his big sister's orchid pink underpants retrieved from the dirty clothes hamper in the bathroom. Then he had come upon the novel he'd once heard his parents sheepishly refer to as the required reading of their youth. Not a reader, nor much of an active participant in his own uninquisitive life, Bernie had nevertheless browsed the more explicit passages of the book and so conceived the idea of defrosting a piece of liver.
Shoving aside rump roasts, Butterballs, and pork tenderloins in his quest, Bernie delved deeper among the frozen foods than he'd ever had occasion to search. That was when, having emptied and removed the wire trays, the boy encountered toward the bottom of the bin a greenish block of ice that stretched the entire length of the freezer. Scattering individually wrapped filets, tossing packages of French fries, niblets, and peas, Bernie was able to discern beneath the rippled surface of the ice the unmistakable shape of a man. It was an old man with a narrow, hawkish face, gouged cheeks, and a stringy yellow beard, his head wreathed in a hat like a lady's muff. His gaunt body was enveloped in a papery black garment that extended to the knees, below which his sticklike calves, crossed at the ankles, were sheathed in white stockings. His feet were shod in buckled bluchers that curled at the toes, his arms folded behind his head as if he were taking a luxurious nap.
Bernie's initial reaction was panic: He'd stumbled upon something he shouldn't have, and thought he ought abruptly to cover his tracks. He rolled the boulders of meat back onto the ice, slammed shut the lid of the deep freeze, and tromped upstairs to his room, where he crawled into bed and tried to still his galloping heart. A solitary, petulant kid, his chubby cheeks in their first flush of cystic acne, Bernie was unaccustomed to any kind of galloping. But the next day he returned to the basement to determine if he'd seen what he'd seen, and that night at dinner, ordinarily a somber affair during which his father related his business woes to an indifferent wife, Bernie muttered, "There's an old man in the meat freezer." He hadn't meant to say anything; if his parents were keeping some dirty secret in the basement, it was none of his business. So what had compelled him to blurt it out?
"Did you say something?" asked his father, unused to his son's breaking his sullen silence during meals. Bernie repeated his assertion, still barely audible.
Mr. Karp pushed his bottle-thick glasses back onto the hump of his nose and looked to his wife, who sat feathering her spoon in her consommé. "What's he trying to say?"
It took a moment for the fog to lift from her puffy face. "Maybe he found the thing."
"The thing." Mr. Karp's voice was level.
"You know, the white elephant."
"The wha-?" Mr. Karp grew quiet, his hands beginning to worry the loosened knot of his tie. "Oh, that."
"It's not an elephant," mumbled Bernie fretfully.
Mr. Karp cleared his throat. "That's an expression, white elephant, like a heirloom. Some people got taxidermied pets in the attic, we got a frozen rabbi in the basement. It's a family tradition."
Bernie retreated once again into silence, having been unaware that his family had any traditions. Then it was his sister Madeline's turn to be heard from. A voluptuous girl, exceedingly vain of her supernormal development, she condescended to inquire, "Like, um, what are you people talking about?"
Wary of his sister, who may have suspected him of stealing her underwear, Bernie slumped in his chair, avoiding her eyes. His father seemed to do likewise, for Madeline's looks could be oppressive in the matte gray Karp household; while Bernie's mother, still playing with her food, offered acerbically, "He's from your father's side of the family; they were always superstitious."
"He's a keepsake"-Mr. Karp's tone was defensive-"that they handed down from generation to generation." He squared his weak shoulders as he tried to summon some pride for an object whose existence he had clearly forgotten till now.
Annoyed, Madeline pushed her chair from the table, blew at a wisp of primrose hair that fell instantly back into her eyes, and flounced resolutely out of the dining room. Moments later a shriek was heard from downstairs, and Mr. Karp cringed. "He came with a book, the rabbi," he said, as if the literature conferred some official distinction. "Yetta, where's the book?"
"There was a book?"
Heaving a sigh, Mr. Karp readjusted his glasses and got purposefully to his feet, departing the room just as Madeleine emerged from the basement, her robust complexion gone deathly pale. "I, um, no longer want anything to do with this family?" she declared interrogatively.
"Here it is," announced Mr. Karp, squeezing past his busty daughter to reenter the dining room. "It was in the bottom drawer of the dresser, under my Masonic apron." Proprietor of a prosperous home-appliance showroom, Mr. Karp was a joiner, an affiliate of local chapters of the Masons, the Lions, and the Elks, his enrollment dating from a time when Jews were not always welcome in such organizations. His prominence and civic-mindedness, however, had earned him the status of an honorary gentile. He had even managed to secure his family a membership in an exclusive Memphis country club, which (with the exception of Madeline, whose endowments gave her entrée everywhere) the family seldom used.
Mr. Karp handed a limp ledger book of the type in which accounts are kept to his son, who began indifferently thumbing the pages. Instead of figures, the pages were covered in an indecipherable script that resembled clef signs and fishhooks.
"The book explains where the rabbi came from," continued Mr. Karp with authority. "My papa wrote it all down himself. Problem is, he wrote it in Yiddish." He may as well have said Martian. Then he added somewhat apologetically, "He's supposed to bring luck."
What kind of luck? Bernie wondered as he carried the ledger to his bedroom, a boneyard of aborted hobbies-the unpainted husks of model cars, the broken clear plastic trunk of a Visible Man, a PlayStation gathering dust. Though his only real enthusiasms to date had been a fondness for overeating and his late penchant for erotic fantasy, he idly perused the ledger's scribbled pages. When they refused to give up one jot of their meaning, he stuffed the book under his mattress alongside Madeline's panties and fell promptly into a dreamless sleep.
Excerpted from THE FROZEN RABBI by STEVE STERN Copyright © 2010 by Steve Stern. Excerpted by permission.
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