It was one of those hot humid summer days when people are advised not to exercise outdoors. While strolling around Manhattan's Lower East Side is not exactly an extreme sport, I decided to skip lunch and go directly, albeit early, to my acupuncture appointment. I walked past an undistinguished Chinese restaurant that was once the site of the illustrious Garden Cafeteria, a legendary eatery where Jewish intellectuals fervently argued the future of humanity.

Across the street a cream-colored Jewish star was built into the building's red brickwork, quietly announcing that this structure used to be a synagogue. Impatient to get inside, I opened the large wooden door and entered a cool, dim vestibule.

The foyer's dark walls were bare except for a heavy brass plaque embossed with thick Hebrew letters. I was gazing at the plaque when Dr. Tan, my acupuncturist, came out of his office. With his usual cheerful demeanor he inquired: “Tell me, please, what does the inscription say?” “The Hebrew writing here records the names of people who made a contribution to building the synagogue,” I replied. He responded: “It's good to remember.” I said: “Not far from here there's a synagogue, the Eldridge Street Synagogue, that fell into disrepair after the original Jewish immigrants left the neighborhood. Now, another generation of Jews is not only restoring the building, but creating a Jewish heritage center as well.” Dr. Tan smiled and nodded in approval. He told me he was about to go to a hall in the basement and have lunch with his wife and some friends, and invited me to join them.

Downstairs, I glanced around the sparsely furnished room, looked beyond a large whirling fan, and recalled another immigrant group, speaking a different language. I imagined a kind of fiddler in the basement; Simchas -- happy occasions -- with joyous music and plenty of food, including chopped liver prepared by Jewish cooks who hadn't yet developed an aversion to chicken fat.

People were laughing and chatting in Chinese. To my delight, a woman seated beside me started speaking in English. After exchanging a few pleasantries, she cut to the chase, and stated: “My son, born in America, refuses to go to Chinese school. He just wants to play baseball all the time.” She said she wanted him to succeed, become a doctor, but was worried that Chinese culture would not survive in America.

I empathized with her concern: like Jews, Chinese people face high rates of intermarriage -- about 50% for Jews, around 40% for Asians born in the US -- and fear their ranks will diminish.

I knew baseball could be a magnet for angst, and said: “In another era there probably was a Jewish mother in this very room with the same hopes for her son, complaining that baseball kept him from studying Hebrew.” My luncheon companion didn't buy into the comparison, and retorted: “Jews are 'people of the book,' and will never lose their tradition.” She insisted that Chinese culture, though ancient, was not as deeply rooted.

During the Cultural Revolution Mao Zedong destroyed art and artifacts and ruptured Chinese society in ways that have yet to heal. Dr. Tan told me that his wife, also an acupuncturist, saw the handwriting on the wall and fled to Hong Kong with their young daughter. Dr. Tan said he remained in China because he thought the revolution would quickly be over and, in any event, he considered himself apolitical and beyond reproach. But he was wrong.

He and other intellectuals were termed “enemies of the people” and demonized by legions of students called Red Guards. Without going into the gory details, he calmly stated: “Many people died. Some couldn't take it, and killed themselves.” I was touched by the gentle way he alluded to harsh acts, and asked: “How were you able to endure?” He replied that his personal disposition saved him; he maintained an even temper throughout the ordeal, even though he feared he might never see his wife and child again.

Did Dr. Tan's resilience give my luncheon companion hope? I said: “After suffering brutal persecution, didn't Dr. Tan bring his culture to America so others could remember?” Her worried frown suggested she wasn't comforted.

I looked up and my mind's eye settled on the image of two boys in baseball caps separated by time and tradition. Their deepest wish may have been to hit a home run, but their mothers didn't see the nation's pastime as merely a game: for them, the boys' field of dreams was a killing field.

While I was imagining the cracking of bats, I heard the clinking of plates being stacked, signaling lunch was over. Dr. Tan quietly slipped away. Others lingered, as if they saved their best tidbits of conversation for last. I said a goodbye to my companion, wished her good luck and reflected on what I saw: not only was Chinese culture thriving all around me, but the Jewish roots on the Lower East Side were being lovingly restored, too. I hurried upstairs, eager to get past the sharp sting of the acupuncture needles and feel the soothing effect that followed in its wake.

Copyright © 2002 PHYLLIS B. GRODSKY, who holds a Ph.D. in Social/ Personality psychology, has previously published. “On Chametz and Haggadahs: A Passover Story”, “In the Presence of the Rebbe,” and “Making Amends.”