The Chosen [Paperback]
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A baseball injury precipitates a friendship between two boys from Hasidic and Zionist families
"Anyone who finds it is finding a jewel. Its themes are profound and universal."
THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
It is the now-classic story of two fathers and two sons and the pressures on all of them to pursue the religion they share in the way that is best suited to each. And as the boys grow into young men, they discover in the other a lost spiritual brother, and a link to an unexplored world that neither had ever considered before. In effect, they exchange places, and find the peace that neither will ever retreat from again....
1. One of the central metaphors of The Chosen is combat. How does this metaphor advance the themes of the book?
2. Chaim Potok spoke often of his interest in a core-to-core culture confrontation in his books. What does this mean in The Chosen? What are the essential differences between the Hasidic and the Orthodox Jews?
3. Reb Saunders uses silence as a way of instructing and changing Danny. Why? What causes him to finally communicate with his son?
4. When Danny begins to read widely, what writer/thinker/innovator and what methodology lead him to the path he finally chooses?
5. Reb Saunders's Hasidic sect is hostile at first to the establishment of the State of Israel. What causes Reb to change his mind?
6. David Malter and Reb Saunders have different opinions about the war in Europe and the fact that 6 million Jews died in death camps. Can you explain how and why they differ?
7. Some people are puzzled by the title. What do you think The Chosen means?
From the Trade Paperback edition.
For the first fifteen years of our lives, Danny and I lived within five blocks of each other and neither of us knew of the other's existence.
Danny's block was heavily populated by the followers of his father, Russian Hasidic Jews in somber garb, whose habits and frames of reference were born on the soil of the land they had abandoned. They drank tea from samovars, sipping it slowly through cubes of sugar held between their teeth; they ate the foods of their homeland, talked loudly, occasionally in Russian, most often in a Russian Yiddish, and were fierce in their loyalty to Danny's father.
A block away lived another Hasidic sect, Jews from southern Poland, who walked the Brooklyn streets like specters, with their black hats, long black coats, black beards, and earlocks. These Jews had their own rabbi, their own dynastic ruler, who could trace his family's position of rabbinic leadership back to the time of the Ba'al Shem Tov, the eighteenth-century founder of Hasidism, whom they all regarded as a God-invested personality.
About three or four such Hasidic sects populated the area in which Danny and I grew up, each with its own rabbi, its own little synagogue, its own customs, it own fierce loyalties. On a Shabbat or festival morning, the members of each sect could be seen walking to their respective synagogues, dressed in their particular garb, eager to pray with their particular rabbi and forget the tumult of the week and the hungry grabbing for money which they needed to feed their large families during the seemingly endless Depression. The sidewalks of Williamsburg were cracked squares of cement, the streets paved with asphalt that softened in the stifling summers and broke apart into potholes in the bitter winters. Many of the houses were brownstones, set tightly together, none taller than three or four stories. In these houses lived Jews, Irish, Germans, and some Spanish Civil War refugee families that had fled the new Franco regime before the onset of the Second World War. Most of the stores were run by gentiles, but some were owned by Orthodox Jews, members of the Hasidic sects in the area. They could be seen behind their counters, wearing black skullcaps, full beards, and long earlocks, eking out their meager livelihoods and dreaming of Shabbat and festivals when they could close their stores and turn their attention to their prayers, their rabbi, their God.
Every Orthodox Jew sent his male children to a yeshiva, a Jewish parochial school, where they studied from eight or nine in the morning to four or five in the evening. On Fridays the students were let out at about one o'clock to prepare for the Shabbat. Jewish education was compulsory for the Orthodox, and because this was America and not Europe, English education was compulsory as well–so each student carried a double burden: Hebrew studies in the mornings and English studies in the afternoons. The test of intellectual excellence, however, had been reduced by tradition and unvoiced unanimity to a single area of study: Talmud. Virtuosity in Talmud was the achievement most sought after by every student of a yeshiva, for it was the automatic guarantee of a reputation for brilliance.
Danny attended the small yeshiva established by his father. Outside of the Williamsburg area, in Crown Heights, I attended the yeshiva in which my father taught. This latter yeshiva was somewhat looked down upon by the students of other Jewish parochial schools of Brooklyn: it offered more English subjects than the required minimum, and it taught its Jewish subjects in Hebrew rather than Yiddish. Most of the students were children of immigrant Jews who preferred to regard themselves as having been emancipated from the fenced-off ghetto mentality typical of the other Jewish parochial schools in Brooklyn.
Danny and I probably would never have met–or we would have met under altogether different circumstances–had it not been for America's entry into the Second World War and the desire this bred on the part of some English teachers in the Jewish parochial schools to show the gentile world that yeshiva students were as physically fit, despite their long hours of study, as any other American student. They went about proving this by organizing the Jewish parochial schools in and around our area into competitive leagues, and once every two weeks the schools would compete against one another in a variety of sports. I became a member of my school's varsity softball team.
On a Sunday afternoon in early June, the fifteen members of my team met with our gym instructor in the play yard of our school. It was a warm day, and the sun was bright on the asphalt floor of the yard. The gym instructor was a short, chunky man in his early thirties who taught in the mornings in a nearby public high school and supplemented his income by teaching in our yeshiva during the afternoons. He wore a white polo shirt, white pants, and white sweater, and from the awkward way the little black skullcap sat perched on his round, balding head, it was clearly apparent that he was not accustomed to wearing it with any sort of regularity. When he talked he frequently thumped his right fist into his left palm to emphasize a point. He walked on the balls of his feet, almost in imitation of a boxer's ring stance, and he was fanatically addicted to professional baseball. He had nursed our softball team along for two years, and by a mixture of patience, luck, shrewd manipulations during some tight ball games, and hard, fist-thumping harangues calculated to shove us into a patriotic awareness of the importance of athletics and physical fitness for the war effort, he was able to mold our original team of fifteen awkward fumblers into the top team of our league. His name was Mr. Galanter, and all of us wondered why he was not off somewhere fighting in the war.
During my two years with the team, I had become quite adept at second base and had also developed a swift underhand pitch that would tempt a batter into a swing but would drop into a curve at the last moment and slide just below the flaying bat for a strike. Mr. Galanter always began a ball game by putting me at second base and would use me as a pitcher only in very tight moments, because, as he put it once, “My baseball philosophy is grounded on the defensive solidarity of the infield.”
That afternoon we were scheduled to play the winning team of another neighborhood league, a team with a reputation for wild, offensive slugging and poor fielding. Mr. Galanter said he was counting upon our infield to act as a solid defensive front. Throughout the warm-up period, with only our team in the yard, he kept thumping his right fist into his left palm and shouting at us to be a solid defensive front.
“No holes,” he shouted from near home plate. “No holes, you hear? Goldberg, what kind of solid defensive front is that? Close in. A battleship could get between you and Malter. That's it. Schwartz, what are you doing, looking for paratroops? This is a ball game. The enemy's on the ground. That throw was wide, Goldberg. Throw it like a sharpshooter. Give him the ball again. Throw it. Good. Like a sharpshooter. Very good. Keep the infield solid. No defensive holes in this war.”
We batted and threw the ball around, and it was warm and sunny, and there was the smooth, happy feeling of the summer soon to come, and the tight excitement of the ball game. We wanted very much to win, both for ourselves and, more especially, for Mr. Galanter, for we had all come to like his fist-thumping sincerity. To the rabbis who taught in the Jewish parochial schools, baseball was an evil waste of time, a spawn of the potentially assimilationist English portion of the yeshiva day. But to the students of most of the parochial schools, an inter-league baseball victory had come to take on only a shade less significance than a top grade in Talmud, for it was an unquestioned mark of one's Americanism, and to be counted a loyal American had become increasingly important to us during these last years of the war.
So Mr. Galanter stood near home plate, shouting instructions and words of encouragement, and we batted and tossed the ball around. I walked off the field for a moment to set up my eyeglasses for the game. I wore shell-rimmed glasses, and before every game I would bend the earpieces in so the glasses would stay tight on my head and not slip down the bridge of my nose when I began to sweat. I always waited until just before a game to bend down the earpieces, because, bent, they would cut into the skin over my ears, and I did not want to feel the pain a moment longer than I had to. The tops of my ears would be sore for days after every game, but better that, I thought, than the need to keep pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose or the possibility of having them fall off suddenly during an important play.
Davey Cantor, one of the boys who acted as a replacement if a first-stringer had to leave the game, was standing near the wire screen behind home plate. He was a short boy, with a round face, dark hair, owlish glasses, and a very Semitic nose. He watched me fix my glasses.
“You're looking good out there, Reuven,” he told me.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Everyone is looking real good.”
“It'll be a good game.”
He stared at me through his glasses. “You think so?” he asked.
“Sure, why not?”
“You ever see them play, Reuven?”
“Sure,” I said.
“No, really. They're wild.”
“You saw them play?”
“Twice. They're murderers.”
“Everyone plays to win, Davey.”
“They don't only play to win. They play like it's the first of the Ten Commandments.”
I laughed. “That yeshiva?” I said. “Oh, come on, Davey.”
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|The Chosen:Understanding Jun 9, 2008|
|in reading "The Chosen" i was very pleased with the book. The plot was very touching as we saw the boys (Danny and Reuven) grow from the grounds of a baseball field to the advanced college campus. Their friendship was very strong and was normally able to overcome most obstacles...except for the silence that Danny and Reb Saunders had between them. Mr. Malter brought Rueven up in talking, so Rueven began to hate the silence simply because he couldn't understand it. i believe that that applies to much of life. If we don't understand something completely, we tend to write it off as bad, hard, or tend to hate it. i would highly recommend this book for anyone looking for a good book for any occasion.|
|The Chosen: Danny and Reuven's Interwoven Journey Jun 9, 2008|
The Chosen is a capturing story of two boys as they grow and mature throughout their friendship and into adulthood. Reuven Malter is a secular Jew while Danny Saunders is a Hasid. The two are naturally opposed by their religion and unleash their anger toward each other in what is no ordinary baseball game. When Reuven is hit in the eye by a powerful ball hit by Danny, Reuven is rushed to the emergency room. It is while Reuven is recovering from the accident in the hospital that he and Danny official meet and begin their interwoven journey.
Danny and Reuven soon realize that they are opposites from one another. Reuven wishes to become a rabbi after graduating from college, while his father hopes for him to become a mathematician. Contrastingly, Danny dreams of being a psychologist even though he is the rightful heir to becoming a Hasidic rabbi. They are also raised by fathers who have contrasting methods of bringing up their sons. Still, it is through these family difficulties, the devastating tolls of the Holocaust, conflicting religion, and Danny's own secret from his father, that create the powerful and unique bond between the two boys. Join them as they teach each other lessons they could not have learned anywhere else and grow into the young adults they strived to be.
|"The Chosen", review Jun 9, 2008|
|"The Chosen", by Chaim Potok, is a narrative about two Jewish boys, Reuven Malter and Danny Saunders, who are from different Jewish sects. The novel is all about their friendship and about them growing up together and the troubles they face due to their different religious interpretation. The boys are raised in different styles Reuven is raised in a regular manner, while Danny's father raises him in silence. Silence is a recurring, mysterious theme of the novel and the way they are raised greatly affects what they become in life. Silence is Danny's father Reb's way of raising Danny so that he will become a good rabbi by learning the ability to figure things out independently. Unfortunately, silence also separates Reuven and Danny when Reuven's father stresses the need to form a Jewish state. He supports "Zionism" while Danny's father does not and this causes Reb to forcibly separate the two boys. |
In the novel Potok uses silence as a literary device that gives the text depth and mystery. The style of Potok's writing is sometimes very mysterious and, for me at least, confusing. The steady moving story shows the ways friendship can mature and change through different uncontrollable factors. It also gives insight into the different beliefs about raising children. I would recommend this book for someone who is prepared to think on a deeper level about the things of life, about differences, and about what can unite us.
|By Andy K., a 7th Grader May 21, 2008|
|Two Brooklyn Jewish boys live a few blocks away, but a world apart. One feels imprisoned by his family's long-held tradition. The other one is secretly very lonely. Although they hate each other at first, they grow to become best friends. This is the story of The Chosen by Chaim Potok. It takes place in the mid to late 1950's, and it is the story of Reuven Malter, a Modern Orthodox Jew, and Danny Saunders. Danny is destined to become a tzaddik, the spiritual connection between his people and their God, just like his father has become. The only problem is that he wants to be a psychologist. I thought this book was very, very good. It managed to be pretty modern, but Potok also weaved in much of the Jewish philosophy, customs, and history. And that, along with the characters, is what drives the story. These things give the story power, they give it drive, and they add deepness to it. The characters are truly amazing as well. Danny is so many things. He's friendly, but can be cold. He's surrounded by people constantly, and yet he feels rather lonely. He's strong, but only Reuven can help him to break free from his "imprisonment." Reuven is popular. He's scholarly. He's a very good baseball player. But beneath it all, he is rather sensitive to and troubled by the world around him. He doesn't really feel like he has a contemporary who he can relate to, who can lift his fear. And Danny seems to do that, slowly but surely. Both their fathers are extremely interesting as well. Both are sort of mini-celebrities. Reuven's father is a Modern Orthodox professor, as well as columnist on Jewish texts. He is constantly criticized and very frail, but ambitious. He serves as Reuven's conscience and source of wisdom throughout the book. Reb Saunders, Danny's dad and a Hasidic Jew, is the spiritual leader of his people. By far the book's most exciting character, the rebbe is a tyrant one minute, and gentle the next. The book gains a lot from Danny's strained relationship with his father. It provides a window to each of their minds, and it adds to the conflict. Danny isn't so much angry at his father, he just feels confused and trapped. The storyline I felt could be slow at times (the whole hospital part sort of drags on somewhat), but it never seemed to lose my interest. The Jewish culture Potok injects into the story is absolutely fascinating, and you weren't really sure what was going to happen next. I wouldn't recommend this story to anyone that gets bored with history or internal conflict. Even then, I would encourage them to try it, just because it expands the reader's cultural horizons and it is so great.|
After I read this, I wanted more of it. There is a sequel called The Promise, which has most of the same characters, and is just as good (though in different ways). So I'd have to give this story ****** out of 5.
|Beautiful Story of Friendship - Still brings tears to my eyes Apr 30, 2008|
|This and its companion novel "The Promise" are my favorite novels -- at least if I haven't read Leon Uris's "Armageddon" or "Exodus" lately. I've read this beautiful story of friendship more then eight times and it still brings tears to my eyes. The fact they are Jewish and that it is set in WWII NYC are incidental because the challenges they faces are timeless. I love this book.|
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