What It Was Like When Abortion Was a Crime

As the abortion issue continues to divide the United States, I think back to 1968, when I was the senior rabbi of Chicago's KAM Isaiah Israel and active in the Clergy Consultation Service, an underground group of Protestant ministers and rabbis dedicated to helping women in need of abortion counseling.

Many years later, I still vividly remember the story of one young woman who sought my help.

It was a Shabbat morning, and I was sitting in my study reviewing the Torah portion when the phone rang. Two Jewish college students, whom I’ll refer to as Josh and Becca, wanted to see me. It was urgent, Josh pleaded. I asked them to come to the synagogue.

An hour later, as I removed the Torah from the ark and faced the congregation, I spotted a young couple walking in through the chapel doors and looking around tentatively. They participated eagerly in the service.

After services, I learned that Josh was in his first year of medical school, and Becca was an undergrad, thinking of pre-med. Then came the information I’d anticipated: Becca was pregnant.

Although they liked each other very much, they were not sure they wanted to get married. They had been good friends since meeting a few years earlier at a Jewish camp in New Jersey, and when they found themselves together on campus at Northwestern... well, one night they ended up back at his off-campus apartment. Pregnancy followed, and they decided abortion was the only sensible option.

When I asked Becca if they had informed her parents, she responded, "No! It would be terrible if my dad found out what I want to do. He's very straitlaced and often talks about colleagues who get rich doing illegal procedures like abortions. No, I can't let him know."

I informed them of the various possibilities for termination. For those who could afford the trip, the best option was in London, where abortions were legal and the clinic CCS recommended had an excellent reputation for safety and compassion.

“I will help you no matter what your decision,” I said, “but it would relieve me greatly – and maybe you, too – if you allowed me to call your parents. After all, I'm a rabbi. I might be able to help them understand."

"OK,” she conceded, “but I should warn you. My parents are very Victorian. When they find out that their little princess isn't a virgin, they'll explode. They won't ever want to see me again."

Becca's mother answered the phone. I introduced myself and told her that Becca was with me, that we had had Shabbat lunch together, and that I thought she was a lovely young woman. She thanked me and asked what had brought Becca to me; I could sense the concern in her voice.

“Becca has a bit of a problem,” I began. “She’s here with her friend Josh, and we've had a long and very personal conversation...”

“Don't tell me they want to get married!” her mother responded. “She's much too young.”

When Becca’s father chimed in to ask what was going on, I explained the couple’s predicament and then told them about the clinic in London,  and why I was recommending it.

Becca’s dad shouted, “You want to send my daughter to an abortionist? I thought you were a rabbi! Have you gone crazy?”

“What Becca needs now is some patience and understanding,” I told them. “She may be young, but she’s old enough to decide about having a baby or not. She wants to terminate this pregnancy and continue with school. She could have gone ahead without ever telling you about it – but I thought you should know, and Becca agreed. I think she could use some loving parental advice at this point."

I heard Becca say, "If only my mother would go to London with me." At the same time, her mother said, "If only Becca would let me go to London with her…" I handed the phone to Becca and asked, “Would you two ladies please tell each other what you just said to me?"

I later learned that Becca spent two days at the London clinic with her mother at her side. The procedure was successful and virtually painless. They spent the rest of the week in London shopping, seeing two plays, and attending Friday evening services at the West London Synagogue.

Today, the thank-you note Becca sent me is kept in a folder along with a dozen or so other letters from other women. I can’t help but wonder: Where is Becca now? Did she become a doctor? Does she have children? And what about all the others?

And, considering modern political realities, I can’t help but wonder next: Are we at risk of revisiting the nightmares of the pre-choice era today?