“But why not?” asked Amy Lanigan. “It’s a religious life, isn’t it? I should think you of all people would want him to have a religious life if he could.”
The rabbi chuckled. “Not really, not in the sense that you people use the term. I’m not a man of God or the spiritual leader of the congregation in the sense that a priest or a Protestant minister is. My duties are essentially secular. I am authorized to sit in judgment or to arbitrate on disputes, but no one ever comes to me to pass judgment. It has happened to me only once since I’ve been here. And even as to advising on matters pertaining to the proper way of observing the commandments, I am rarely called upon. The congregation here is not that meticulous in its observance. So I am largely confined to maintaining and teaching our tradition. My sermons are directed to that end, but I’m afraid fewer and fewer of my congregants care. Most of them regard the sermon as a break in the tedium of the service. We have a great respect for learning and study. After all, it’s what distinguishes us from the lower animals. But to spend one’s life in study in a yeshiva, as in a monastery or convent, is to shirk one’s responsibility to the everyday world. We respect the learned, but we expect them to be involved in society and the world’s work. Even our great sages of the Talmudic era all had secular jobs of one sort or another, some of them quite menial. You see, the practice of Judaism is essentially an amateur occupation.”
“But if he received a call—” Amy urged.
“You mean the way Jonah did? ‘Go preach to the people of Nineveh.’ No. And if you remember, he was unwilling. When he finally did, he found it most unsatisfactory. God didn’t destroy the city, which left him disgruntled and embarrassed.”
“But you did, didn’t you?” Amy persisted.
“Receive a call?” The rabbi smiled broadly. “Only from old Jacob Wasserman, the chairman of the Ritual Committee, at the time.”
8
Miriam slid over to occupy the window seat. The rabbi folded their coats and laid them out carefully in the luggage compartment above. “Do you want me to put your bag up there, too?” he asked.
“No, I’ll keep it on the floor at my feet,” said Miriam.
The rabbi took the middle seat, strapped himself in, and then fished in the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him for something to read. There was only the plastic card with the diagram of the plane and instructions on what to do in case of an emergency.
“The stewardess will be around soon with papers and magazines,” said Miriam. She fished in her bag. “Or do you want to read my Ladies’ Home Journal?”
“No. It’s all right. I’ll wait.”
They watched as passengers moved down the aisle, some stopping to check seat numbers, some stopping to load hand luggage and coats into the baggage compartments and then to take their seats beneath. They wondered if it was a full plane, and if someone would take the aisle seat beside them, or if it would be left vacant so they could have an extra seat in which to stretch out.
They were not kept in uncertainty for long. A well-dressed man of medium height stopped at their row, checked the letters of the seats against the notation on his boarding pass, and smiling down at the rabbi, said, “I guess this is it.” He placed the topcoat he was carrying over his arm and his carry-on case in the rack overhead and then sat down and buckled himself in. Almost immediately he took out a paperback from his jacket pocket and began to read. But a moment later he unbuckled himself and took off his suit jacket. As he folded it neatly before placing it in the rack overhead, the rabbi noted that his name, James Skinner, was embroidered on the inside breast pocket. Then once again he took his seat, buckled himself in, and opened his paperback.
The rabbi, having no reading matter to occupy him, found himself glancing covertly at his seatmate, wondering about his reason for going to Israel. He was obviously Gentile on the basis of both his appearance and his name. Was he traveling on business, or was he planning to tour the country? Was he, perhaps, a missionary, or a scholar? Perhaps he was an archaeologist who was planning to take part in one of the various digs that were being conducted in various parts of the country.
Miriam turned around to look toward the stewards’ station and then asked, “Do you suppose they’ll be serving soon, David?”
“On these late-night flights, just as soon as we’re airborne, I imagine,” said the rabbi.
A steward walked slowly up the aisle, his head turning from side to side, checking to see if everyone was strapped in, his seat back upright.
The rabbi’s seatmate looked up from his book, and addressing the steward in Hebrew, he said, “You’ll be serving almost immediately, won’t you? I’m starved.”
“We’ll be serving drinks as soon as we’re airborne,” said the steward, “and dinner immediately after.”
When the rabbi translated for Miriam, the stranger said, “Oh, you speak Hebrew?”
“Yes, I’m a rabbi. David Small. And this is my wife, Miriam.”
“How do you do? I’m James Skinner.”
“Yes, I know,” said Rabbi Small. “I saw the name on your jacket.” He chuckled. “When I saw the name, I assumed you weren’t Jewish.”
“I’m not.”
“But you speak Hebrew.”
“I was born in Jerusalem.” He smiled. “So was my father, for that matter. We’re from Minnesota originally and I still have”—he grinned—mishpacha there.”
“It was your grandparents who first came to Israel?” asked Miriam.
“Palestine, then,” he corrected her. “But the Holy Land, in any case. That’s right, they came because it was the Holy Land. It was a pilgrimage of faith. Actually, they were on their honeymoon. That was back in 1906 or ’07.”
“And they just stayed on?”
“Well, no. But Grandpa saw a chance to do some business there. His people were in the wholesale grocery business, and he had the bright idea of shipping out dried figs under the label ‘Fruit from the Holy Land.’ See, his family’s business covered a good portion of northern Minnesota. That area of the country was pretty religious—still is, I reckon—and he figured anything from the Holy Land would sell.”
“And did it?” asked the rabbi.
“It sure did. Not only did it sell well to the firm’s regular customers, but it also gave them a toe-in to new territory. Later, Grandpa shipped other stuff—olives and olive oil, dates, almonds, saffron—a whole slew of stuff, nuts and dried fruits. Anything that would travel.”
“And your grandfather stayed on?” asked Miriam.
“Oh, he came back to the States now and again, but his home was in Jerusalem. He liked the climate and he liked the area. I guess almost anything is preferable to a Minnesota winter. When I’m in the States I live in Boston, which is bad enough, but not nearly as bad as northern Minnesota. He, Grandpa, stayed in Palestine until his father died, and he went back to Minnesota permanently to handle the family business. And, of course, by that time my father was old enough to take over the operation in Jerusalem. He had bought a house in Abu Tor, and we conducted our business from there. Then things began to get a bit sticky, too close to the Arab section, and we left the house and took an apartment in Rehavia, for safety, you understand.”
“So your father opted for the Jewish Side?”
Skinner laughed. “Not really. Of course, the Jews were the Chosen People, but on the other hand, they had repudiated the Christ. Then most of his business associates were Arabs. I guess he was inclined to be neutral, except that he did hate the British, and since they seemed to be anti-Jewish at the time, he tended to side with the Jews. You know, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. He was even of some assistance to the Haganah on occasion. My older sister and I had been sent back to the States, where we remained. I went to school in the States, which always was my father’s intention. My sister never came back; she met someone and got married. I came back after the Six-Day War.
“Then, with the Old City now in the hands of the State of Israel, my father asked for o
ur house in Abu Tor back. He had the deeds, you see, and there were some powerful people in the government who remembered the help my father had given the Haganah, so they let us have it. Maybe they would have anyway, since we had title, but it certainly didn’t hurt to have helped the Haganah.”
“And all this time your father carried on his export business?” asked Miriam.
Skinner laughed shortly. “The export business was deteriorating rapidly, and when the State was declared, it practically went down the drain.”
“Why was that?” asked Miriam, puzzled.
“Figure it out for yourself. We had been offering the products of the Holy Land. It was unusual. It was exotic. And it was sort of religious. But then your people began exporting, and it was no longer rare or exotic, and since you were trying to establish markets and your farmers were working on a cooperative basis, you were selling the stuff cheaper.”
“So what did your father do?”
“Oh, lots of things,” said Skinner vaguely. “You see, he had contacts among the Arabs and he was able to put that to good use. For a while he was a sort of unofficial go-between for Israel and Iran. You’d be surprised at the amount of machinery that found its way to Israel from some of the Arab countries. My father had a hand in it. And—oh, lots of things.”
“You use the past tense—”
“Yes, Father died a few years ago. I had been working with him for a couple of years, however, so I was able to carry on, since I knew his contacts and they knew me. And, of course, we still do some exporting, mostly honey and olive oil.”
“And you live in Jerusalem?” asked Miriam. “I mean, that’s your home?”
“No, my home, my official residence, is in Boston. But I do a lot of traveling, so I’m there not more than a few months in the year. This is my third trip to Israel this year. When I’m in the Mideast, then my home is in Jerusalem. I have offices there, and in Haifa, but Jerusalem is home base. From there I might go to Egypt, Jordan, Iran, anywhere in the area. I used to have to go to Crete first, but since the Israel-Egypt Peace Treaty, it’s a lot easier. Where are you folks from?”
“We’re from the Boston area,” said Rabbi Small.
“From Barnard’s Crossing,” Miriam added.
“Oh, I’ve visited there. It’s a nice town.”
“We think so,” said Miriam.
“A friend of mine had a boat that was anchored there. Ah, here’s our dinner. Although it’s kosher, they do you rather well on El Al.”
“You would prefer nonkosher food?” asked the rabbi.
“No-o. When I stay in an Israeli hotel, I make a regular pig of myself on the breakfast, except that I like butter with my bread and cream with my coffee, and they can’t give it to you if they’re serving meat.”
“I see.” The rabbi tore off a bit of his roll, salted it, and recited the blessing. “Blessed art thou, O Lord … who brought forth bread from the earth.”
“That’s the motze you just recited, isn’t it?” said Skinner to make conversation as much as to show that he had some knowledge of Jewish practice. “Now, my father would have said grace—”
“But you don’t.”
“No, I’ve been away from the Church too long to bother.”
“You lose something by it,” said the rabbi.
“How d’ya mean?”
“Well, the blessing that we offer, or your recital of grace, makes partaking of food something other than a mere refueling operation. It’s one of the things that distinguishes us from the lower animals. We can enjoy our food. They can only satisfy hunger.”
Skinner grinned. “Which is why we get fat and they don’t, and die of diseases induced by being overweight and they don’t.”
“Of course,” said the rabbi. “There is always a penalty for misusing a gift, for overdoing a virtue.”
“I suppose.” He nodded in the direction of a young bearded Hasid with earlocks who was sitting across the aisle and was only just now receiving a tray from the steward, one markedly different from those they had received. “That’s a glad kosher meal he’s getting, isn’t it? I understand it’s a superkosher meal.”
The rabbi laughed. “Not glad. Glatt. It’s a Yiddish word and means in the context strictly, strictly kosher.”
“I should think you would have ordered the same thing, seeing as how you’re a rabbi.”
“It’s because I am a rabbi that I didn’t.”
“Really?”
“You see,” said the rabbi easily as he poured wine from the small bottle that had accompanied his meal into a plastic glass, “kosher refers not only to the species of animal that is permitted, the grazing animal that chews its cud as opposed to meat-eating predators, but it also refers to the condition of the animal and its method of slaughter. The slaughterer, the shohet, is an observant and learned man and he performs his work on the animal painlessly. He uses a knife of razor sharpness. If there is a nick on the edge that would impede the movement of the knife ever so little but that might cause pain, the animal is rendered thereby not kosher, traife.”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“But the condition of the animal is also important. After slaughtering, the shohet is required to examine the viscera for signs of sickness or disease. Obvious cases he is qualified to judge on his own and either pass as kosher or condemn as traife. But if he is uncertain, he submits it to a rabbi, for him to judge and make the finding. Well, glatt kosher is the meat of an animal that has never been submitted to a rabbi to have its kashrut—whether it’s kosher—determined.”
“There can’t be many that are submitted. I mean not in the States, or in any civilized country where there is government inspection.”
“True, but as a rabbi, I resent the assumption that an animal that the rabbi has declared kosher is any less kosher than one that was never submitted to him for examination.”
“I get your point, but I’m sure not all rabbis agree with you.”
“Perhaps not. Do you know many rabbis?”
“Quite a few. Living in Jerusalem, how could I avoid it?”
Shortly after the dinner trays were collected, a stewardess came along with a bunch of earphones on her arm for those who wanted to watch the movie they were about to show.
Miriam shook her head and the rabbi said, “No, thanks. I’m going to try to sleep.”
Skinner said, “Yes, I’ll have a pair.” Then to the rabbi, “And I think I’ll go back and find a place in the smoking section. I’m perishing for a cigarette.”
The cabin was darkened for the movie, and the rabbi squirmed about in his seat, hoping to find a position that would enable him to sleep. “I wonder if he’s planning to come back after his cigarette, or if he’ll stay back in the smoking section and watch the movie from there.”
“Why?” asked Miriam.
“Because if he’s not coming back for a while, I’ll lift up the chair arm and stretch out. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll stay in back for a while. He took his earphones with him. Maybe he’ll find someone to talk to back there and just stay there. He seems a very friendly sort.”
“Well, if he does come back, I’ll just sit up again.”
Skinner did not come back until shortly before landing, after the stewardess had come around to distribute the cards that had to be filled out for the passport authorities and preparations were being made for the descent.
As the plane touched down, there was a burst of applause from the passengers. At the skill of the pilot? That the long journey was at an end? Or to express joy at the arrival? The rabbi was never sure which, but he was curiously touched. As far as he knew, it happened only on the El Al flight to Israel. Simultaneously, the public-address system on the plane burst out in a song of welcome. The plane came to a halt, and the passengers began hauling out their carry-on luggage from overhead compartments. Skinner rose and took out his jacket and bag, then took out the rabbi’s and Miriam’s coats for them.
“Well, good-bye,” Skinner said. “It was nice to have met you. Perhaps we’ll see each other in Jerusalem.” He stepped into the aisle and was carried forward by the push of the crowd to the exit and the flight of stairs that led to the buses waiting to convey the passengers to the terminal.
In the terminal they had their passports stamped and then proceeded through the barrier to get a cart and go to the carousel on which baggage was already beginning to come through. They did not have long to wait, and the rabbi took it as a good omen that both their valises came through together. Miriam, mindful of the rabbi’s bad back, tried to help him lift them off the carousel onto the carrier, but he insisted he could manage, and although he did feel a twinge of pain, he took care not to wince.
There were two gates, one red for those who had something to declare and on which they might have to pay duty, the other green for those who had nothing to declare. They chose the green gate and a moment later found themselves on the sidewalk, facing the crowd awaiting the arrival of the passengers. They searched the sea of faces for Gittel, but it was she who spotted them.
9
“Miriam! David! over here.” She hugged miriam to her and then releasing her, she turned to the rabbi, clasped his head in both hands, and kissed him. She was a little older-looking than when they had last seen her, a little more wrinkled, her hair piled on top of her head untidily, a little grayer. But her bearing still carried the note of complete command over any situation she might find herself in.
She demanded to know why Jonathon and Hepsibah had not come with them, and when Miriam told her they were on vacation at summer camp, she asked, “Wouldn’t they have a better vacation here in Israel than in camp?”
“But it wouldn’t be much of a vacation for us,” the rabbi pointed out.
In answer to their inquiries about her son and his family, she said, “Uri is now a banker. He wears a three-piece suit and a kipah. He’s religious now, you know. It’s one of those little crocheted ones. Not yet a black hat, thank God. Right now he’s in the army reserve, in miluim. He’s a major,” she added proudly. “As for his wife, she comes to visit once in a while. I suppose Uri tells her to. She brings the boy when she comes. A real charmer, that boy. He, too, wears a kipah, I’m afraid. Maybe he’ll outgrow it.”
One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross Page 5
