In the summer of 1954, Mordecai Richler, age 23, was living in London, England, having just published his debut novel, The Acrobats. In August, he married his first wife, Cathy Boudreau, a gentile, dashing his family’s hopes of his finding a “proper” Jewish lifemate. In the years that followed, critics expressed disgust over Richler’s depiction of Jews in his fiction, calling it “self-hate” literature. Personally and professionally, he struggled to define the terms of his own Jewishness.
Mordecai and Cathy’s civil marriage was something that devastated the family back home, for it went against the tribe.
When news of the proposed nuptial with a shiksa (gentile) reached Montreal, Mordecai’s older brother Avrum sent off a long letter in an attempt to dissuade him. The letter is remarkable, first, because it reflects an attitude to assimilation and intermarriage that for Jews in North America today is no longer so prevalent. And second, it is written, mostly, with their mother Lily in mind. “The shock of the news is still around,” wrote Avrum, “and it was a shock . . . because of what it’s done to Mom . . . She is quite ill over the whole business. It seems that you had given her your word that you wouldn’t marry a gentile, much less an older woman.”
Also at Macleans.ca: Always the writer in exile
What lies behind this letter, to which there is more, is anybody’s guess. Did Lily put Avrum up to it? Did Avrum use Lily’s name, knowing Mordecai was close to her? Avrum concluded his letter with a plea for tribal loyalty: “Think it over many times . . . think of your ancestors, & of your descendants . . . It can’t do you or your name, or your career, any earthly good.”
And his father’s response? Moe, who so rarely chided Mordecai, who collected clippings and magazines and sent them to his son, who kept him informed about the family—Clifford got his diploma, Cousin Mike sneezed then fainted. He had already in the past expressed his concerns about Mordecai’s possible “religious deviations,” to which Mordecai had replied that the suspicions were “absolutely silly!” The old man was furious, Avrum now wrote to his brother, punctuating with two exclamation marks. And the old man was. He wrote, on July 24, 1954:
“Dear Son;—
. . . Now you have struck the blow, and where it hurts, not the pocket book this time, but personally. You take it for granted that I would be agreeable, and bless this unholy marriage, and seal it with a gift cheque, but I am sorry that I have to disappoint you. You also know that up till now I always did your bidding without hesitation, with money, with parcels, and also I had to defend your character . . . I was beginning to be proud of you when your first book came out, and was able to have more confidence in you, that some day soon, perhaps you’ll come out with a good book, and being successful, you would find yourself a proper lifemate . . . ”
For Moe, success meant financial, and a good book was one that made money. He had the impression that Cathy was a European, used to chocolates and nylons from expatriate North Americans, who had now latched on to Mordecai as a rich Canadian who could give her a better life.
He goes on, in perhaps the longest letter he wrote to his son. He could be a soft touch with money, but now “I have to be stern and very hard when it comes to honour, and respect. You will dishonour me when you go through with your plans, and I see no alternative but to do what I see fit. You will have to forget my address, and not try to see me, because seeing you after then will only reopen the wounds of sorrow . . . ”
