One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross

by Harry Kemelman

  “But he’s here in the States now—”

  “Sure, but he could have tipped off someone before he left Athens. Let’s see that envelope.” He focused his attention on the back of the envelope.

  “What are you looking for?” asked El Dhamouri.

  “To see if it’s been steamed open and resealed.” He tossed it back. “If it has been, I can’t tell. All right, I’ll get on to Athens as soon as I get back to the hotel.”

  In the studio apartment Avram watched as Gavriel threw darts at a cork target affixed to the wall. Gavriel squinted and tossed his last dart. “Bull’s-eye!” he exclaimed.

  “Pure luck,” said Avram. “You jerk it. You’ll never get accuracy that way. You’ve got to follow through.”

  The telephone rang, and Gavriel picked it up from the floor. He listened and said, “Uh-huh. All right, I’ll get back to you.” To Avram he said, “El Dhamouri was visited by an Albert Houseman, the second or third time, always in the afternoon after the secretary has gone.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You know him? Who is he?”

  “Oh, you never served on the West Coast. He used to be Ibn Hosni, Abdul Ibn Hosni. He changed his name, officially, which is interesting. Used to be years ago, anyone coming to America, first thing they did was to Americanize their name. Sometimes it was done for them at Immigration. So Hans became Henry and Jorge became George, and Yitzchak became Isaac or Isadore or Irving or Irwin.”

  “It’s no different in Israel,” said Gavriel. “There Irwin or Irving becomes Yitzchak and Greenberg becomes Ben Gurion and Scholnick becomes Eshkol.”

  Avram nodded. “Sure, but not nowadays here. At least, not so much. You notice El Dhamouri is still El Dhamouri. Nowadays here people tend to keep their original names. Heinrich remains Heinrich, and Ian and Ivan aren’t changed to John. As for our people, we now have Moshe instead of Moses or Morris, and Yaacov instead of Jacob. Notice that the older one is Isaac Stern, but the younger one is Yitzchak Perlman.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s funny in a way that Abdul Ibn Hosni should become Albert Houseman.”

  “You think it’s to cover up his Arab origin?”

  “No-o, not in the sense that he might try to deny it. Maybe he just finds it easier. Chances are that if he went to a hotel and registered as Abdul Ibn Hosni, the clerk would automatically signal to the hotel detective, but as Albert Houseman, even though he looks Arab, probably not.”

  “You know him well?”

  “Well enough. He’s one of Ibrahim’s bully boys.”

  “Dangerous?”

  Avram shrugged. “He’s a long way from home.”

  “He’s staying at the Holiday Inn in Cambridge.”

  “Is that so? He’s Druse, you know, like Ibrahim.”

  “So is El Dhamouri.”

  “So it might be just a social call. Still, it might be something else. It might be interesting to know what else he does besides visit El Dhamouri. I don’t mean to follow him around, but just kind of keep an eye peeled for him.”

  “Okay. Are you going to pass it on?”

  “Naturally. Fortunately, we don’t have to evaluate information, just gather it.”

  13

  As a Conservative rabbi, David Small had no standing, certainly not as a rabbi, with the Orthodox establishment that controlled religion in Israel. At best, his title was there only a courtesy title, like a Kentucky Colonel, carrying no authority—which was why he did not look forward to going to see Louis Goodman’s son at the American Yeshiva, since from all accounts its orientation was ultra-Orthodox.

  Although he was particularly adept at forgetting to do unpleasant things, or things he did not want to do, he knew that this duty he could not avoid since he had given his word. So on a bright, sunny day, after the minyan, and after he had breakfasted leisurely, he took a bus to Abu Tor.

  The yeshiva was housed in what had formerly been the home of a wealthy Arab. It was built of blocks of the pinkish-beige Jerusalem stone. There was an arched doorway outlined in blue tiles, guarded on either side by a smallish cement lion, one of which was missing a paw while the other had had a portion of its muzzle chipped away. In front of the house, the bit of land that had at one time probably been elaborately landscaped and carefully tended was now a mass of overgrown bushes. The iron fence that encircled the grounds was badly rusted with here and there a gap where the iron pickets had been wrenched out.

  The rabbi looked about him curiously and then walked slowly up a flagstone path to a pair of large wooden doors with heavy ornate brass handles. There was a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, but he looked about for a more discreet bell button. At the point on the door jamb where the push button might originally have been, a slot had been cut out, and a mezuza inserted. The rabbi automatically touched it with his fingertips and then touched them to his lips as he wondered idly if the bell had been purposely removed lest someone absentmindedly push it on the Sabbath, thereby presumably desecrating the holy day of rest by performing work. As he stood there, a tall, blond young man came striding up the path. He was bearded, and perched on top of his long hair he wore a small crocheted kipah. He was dressed in faded blue jeans tucked into leather boots, and a sweat shirt, the arms of which had been cut off. He looked questioningly at the rabbi and then pulled open the door and held it in invitation for the rabbi to enter.

  The rabbi stepped into a large, empty foyer of black and white marble tiles, to face a broad staircase with a wide mahogany balustrade. The young man left him there and mounted the staircase two steps at a time. The rabbi looked about uncertainly and noticed a hallway to the right, along which were several doors that presumably led to rooms or offices. Near the entrance was what appeared to be a receptionist’s window—at least it had a round hole cut out of the glass. The rabbi walked over and saw a small office with a desk and numerous file cabinets. Seated at the desk, working at a ledger, was a man with a straggly black beard. He was wearing a black alpaca coat over a white shirt open at the neck. On his head, but pushed back from his forehead, he wore a narrow-brimmed black felt hat.

  The rabbi cleared his throat and coughed apologetically, but the other did not raise his head from his work. The rabbi waited a minute and then tapped on the pane. This time the other looked up, obviously annoyed. His eyes were set deep in bony sockets and glittered like a man with a fever. The rabbi judged him to be in his forties.

  “I’m looking for Jordan Goodman,” said Rabbi Small.

  “Goodman? Goodman? We have no Goodman here.”

  “I believe he now calls himself Ish-Tov.”

  “Ah, yes. Ish-Tov. And what do you want with him?”

  “I should like to talk to him.”

  “And you are?”

  “David Small. I am the rabbi of his hometown in the States.”

  With a sigh, the other got to his feet, and opening the door beside the window, gestured the rabbi inside. He did not introduce himself, but Rabbi Small saw that the brass name-plate on the desk bore the name Joseph Kahn.

  There were a number of ledgers on the only visitor’s chair in the room, so Rabbi Small remained standing. For a moment or two Kahn surveyed him, his gray flannels and seersucker jacket, his linen cap, the fact that he was beardless, and then said patronizingly, almost insolently, “Ah, a Reform rabbi.”

  “No, Conservative.”

  “Same thing.” Kahn sat down and pulled the ledger he had been working on toward him, as though in dismissal. Then he turned his head to Rabbi Small and said, “I don’t think Ish-Tov would be particularly interested in talking to you.”

  “Not even if I bring greetings from his parents?”

  “They are well?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then I will convey it to him.”

  The angry retort that came to mind, Rabbi Small suppressed. He even managed to achieve a smile. “It seems curious,” he said, “that here in a yeshiva you would want to prevent one of your stude
nts from performing a mitzvah.”

  Kahn glared. “And what mitzvah is that?”

  “Honor your mother and father.”

  Kahn drummed nervously on his desktop as he took thought. Then he rose swiftly to his feet and said, “Perhaps you had better talk to Rabbi Karpis, our director,” and circling the desk, left the room. He was back after a minute or two and nodded for Rabbi Small to follow him. He led him down the corridor to a door marked “Director.” He knocked, opened the door, and stood aside for Rabbi Small to enter. Then he withdrew and closed the door behind him.

  The director was a large, fleshy man with a square gray beard. He sat behind an ornate teakwood desk that was clear except for a chessboard with a few pieces in place, which he had evidently been studying and which he pushed aside just as his visitor entered.

  Rabbi Small glanced at the board and immediately recognized the position of the pieces as a problem that had appeared in the newspaper a few days before.

  Rabbi Karpis caught the glance and asked, “You play chess? It’s a problem. White to move and mate in three. I’ll admit I’m baffled by it.” He spoke in English with a trace of a British accent.

  “Yes, I saw it in the newspaper. You move the knight.”

  “Why move the knight?”

  “Just to get it out of the way and clear the file.”

  “But then black takes the queen.”

  “Let him. You move your other knight to bishop eight, which cuts off the black king from—”

  “Ah, yes, I see. Of course. How stupid of me!” And then, “How long did it take you?”

  “A couple of days,” Rabbi Small lied. “And then it was mostly a matter of luck.”

  “Hm.” Rabbi Karpis sat back and surveyed his visitor suspiciously from under lidded eyes. Then he said, “My colleague tells me you are a Conservative rabbi.”

  “Yes, and he seemed to disapprove.”

  Rabbi Karpis smiled. “Mr. Kahn is”—he fished for a word and settled on—“young. Young men have strong convictions. While I am myself opposed to these experiments—Conservatism, Reform, Reconstructionism—with God’s commandments, nevertheless from time to time we have received support, financial support, for our work here from Jews of those persuasions.”

  “Indeed!” said Rabbi Small politely.

  “Does it surprise you, Rabbi? Consider. Why do our students come to us? Because they wish to return to the beliefs and practices of their fathers. And why? Because while some of them have led perfectly normal, commonplace lives and found them unsatisfactory, others have experimented with strange religions, with drugs, with exotic life-styles. Some of them have even gotten in trouble with the secular authorities. And how do their parents feel about their coming to us, about their return? Grateful, Rabbi. They feel grateful.”

  “And they send you a check in acknowledgment.”

  The director nodded, beaming.

  “It’s only fair to tell you,” said Rabbi Small, “that there is little of that sort of thing to hope for from Goodman—er, Ish-Tov. His folks are in very modest circumstances, which is why they have not come over to see him. They just couldn’t afford it. When they heard I was coming over, they asked me to look him up and see if he’s all right.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t think we are interested only in those whose parents might make a contribution,” said the director reproachfully. “We need money, as every organization needs money, but we have not forgotten our original purpose.”

  “And what is that?”

  Rabbi Karpis looked in surprise. “Why, to bring Jews back to their faith, to their heritage. They were all worldly and for the most part unhappy when they came to us. We teach them what they should know as Jews. We reorient them, and they are—”

  “Born again?” asked Rabbi Small innocently.

  Rabbi Karpis waggled an admonishing forefinger at him. “Ah, you’re chaffing, of course.” Then primly, “We are all born again every morning when we wake up.” He leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. “Are you suggesting we seduce these young men? Brainwash them? That we are a cult like those that have arisen in such profusion recently in your country?”

  “I rather wondered when your colleague at the front desk said that Goodman wouldn’t want to see me, when he had not bothered to ask him. And then when I persisted, brought me to you, instead of merely notifying Goodman that someone had arrived with a message from his parents.”

  “Ah, well, Mr. Kahn is somewhat peremptory, even short-tempered. He is not only our secretary, but is also charged with maintaining the discipline of study and ritual observance. For our purposes it is good to have a man like that in charge of discipline. They came to us, many of them, because they realized that the lives they had been leading were unsatisfactory, ineffective, counterproductive. They were slaves of their emotions and did things on the spur of the moment. Do you know how your friend Goodman—Ish-Tov—happened to come to us, to Israel? He was in California and was planning to go to South America when he met someone named Good who had the return portion of a round-trip ticket from Israel to America. It was about to run out, so he was able to buy it for a few dollars, and it was easy to change the name on the ticket from Good to Goodman. So he came to Israel, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “Now, if one of these young men wants to go to Eilat for a weekend, or even to a movie one night, there is Mr. Kahn to tell him he can’t. If he should insist, do you think we would hold him here by force? No, he would walk out, but he would not be permitted to return. Discipline, Rabbi Small, discipline! Once study and ritual observance have become a matter of habit, in other words, once he has achieved self-discipline, ours is no longer necessary, and he is free to come and go as he pleases.

  “Now, Mr. Kahn has an acute understanding of the needs and the special weaknesses of each of our young men. Why didn’t he want Ish-Tov to see you? Perhaps because he felt that at this moment in time, Ish-Tov’s study should not be interrupted. Or that at this particular time, it would be unwise for Ish-Tov to have his attention diverted from his studies to his former life in the States. Or”—he smiled broadly—“Kahn may have had a headache.”

  “A headache?”

  “Yes.” Rabbi Karpis folded his hands and nodded. And then shook his head slowly in commiseration. “The poor man is subject to severe migraine headaches, and sometimes he is apt to be short-tempered as a result.”

  “I see. And when your young men throw stones at passing cars on the Sabbath, or pile trash on your neighbor’s garden, is that because of Mr. Kahn’s headaches, or is it a part of the discipline?”

  The older man leaned forward and said earnestly, “Believe me, Rabbi Small, I never approved of that. And it has not happened since I took over.” He raised his shoulders and then dropped them in an elaborate shrug. “In our organization, in any organization, there are differences of opinion as to the best way of achieving its goals. These differences crystallize into factions. Even among the tannaim, there was the School of Hillel and the School of Shammai. My predecessor is a man of vast learning and great probity. He is part of what might be called the activist faction. Then the”—he fished for a word—“shall we say, the climate, yes, the climate shifted and our—er—strategy for—of a number of things—changed.”

  “I see. Well, in the light of this shift in climate, can I speak to Mr. Ish-Tov? I have no intention of interfering with your discipline or—”

  “My dear Rabbi Small, of course.” He reached for the telephone on his desk, pressed a button, and said, “Yossi? Would you have Ish-Tov come down to my office immediately?”

  He listened, nodding, and then hung up. “I’m terribly sorry, Rabbi. I had quite forgotten. Ish-Tov went up to Haifa today with our truck. We have some new desks coming. He won’t be back until quite late. But you can see him tomorrow, or whenever it is convenient for you. If you give me your phone number, I can call you and arrange for an appointment, but I’m quite sure that anytime tomorrow will be all right.”
He smiled. “And if you have time, perhaps we can play a game of chess afterward.”

  14

  As he was making his way to the bus stop, Rabbi Small heard his name called. He stopped and looked about him uncertainly, and then he saw James Skinner waving to him from a second-floor window. He waved back and was about to proceed, but the other signaled to him frantically, so he waited, assuming that Skinner wanted to speak to him. In a moment Skinner came running out of his front door and shouted, “Come and have a coffee, Rabbi!”

  The rabbi looked about curiously as Skinner led him up the path to the front door. On either side of the path there were little circles of stones in which various flowers grew. Radiating from the circles were small oblong plots, also set off by rows of stones in which various forms of cactus were set out. On the side that adjoined the yeshiva land, there was a row of tall cypress trees that effectively cut off the view of the building.

  “We can’t maintain grass,” Skinner explained. “Too dry, I guess. I have a gardener who comes around once a week or so. He tried because I insisted, but when I found he wasn’t able to manage, I gave him his head and let him do what he wanted. As long as he keeps it fairly neat, I don’t mind. Nevertheless, I didn’t appreciate it when our friends over there”—a nod toward the yeshiva—“decided to add to the decor.”

  “I spoke to the director, and I gathered that you are not likely to be troubled that way again.”

  “Yeah, so I understand.”

  The rabbi was not altogether surprised to find when he entered the door that the layout was similar to that of the yeshiva. There was the same broad staircase leading up to the second floor and the same arrangement of large black and white tiles on the floor of the foyer. On the right, however, was a large room with double doors, one of which was partly open. The rabbi glanced in.

  “The salon,” said Skinner. “I don’t use it much. It gives me the willies.” He opened it, however, perhaps to prove his point.