Love in Detroit Dan hadn’t been in this building since his bar mitzvah, but it hadn’t changed. The marble entrance was as grand as ever. The building smelled the same, like old masonry, floor wax, and flowers. The murals were still there, Jacob wrestling with the angel, Moses parting the Red Sea. He wandered down the wide corridor, recalling how much he had always liked the way his footsteps echoed on the tile floor. This corridor had once held display cases full of Torah scroll covers, menorahs and Sabbath candlesticks. In their place hung portraits of black leaders. Frederick Douglass. Marcus Garvey. W. E. B. Dubois. Martin Luther King. He stopped before the portrait of Dr. King, feeling the familiar sorrow and guilt at the familiar image. His synagogue was now the Zion African Methodist Episcopal Church. Billy Steinberg, president of Temple Zion’s youth group, had called him a few days ago to invite him to a meeting at Zion AME. “What for?” Dan muttered into the phone. He hadn’t been to a Temple Zion meeting for months. Billy was a cheerful, extroverted boy, a salesman like his father. “For the Freedom Seder,” he said. Every year since the riot, the youth groups of Temple Zion and Zion AME had planned and celebrated a Freedom Seder together. “Who else is coming?” “I’m calling lots of people.” He had to know. “Laura?” There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Finally Billy said defensively, “What do you care?” Reminded, embarrassed, Dan said quickly, “I’ll be there.” Now, as he stood before Dr. King’s portrait, he heard a decisive contralto voice say, “Young man, is there something you’re looking for?” Startled, he looked up. The speaker was a well-dressed, middle-aged black woman whose presence was as commanding as her voice. He blurted out, “I used to belong here. When it was Temple Zion.” “Is that so?” she said, implying that he’d better have a good reason to be here now. He apologized. “I’m here for the youth group meeting. I’m looking for the library.”
Page 4