Tuesday the Rabbi Saw Red

by Harry Kemelman

  “Right. So when he was made acting head of the department early in the summer session, he demanded a private office and Millie Hanbury managed to find him an oversized closet on the second floor. A poor thing, but his own.”

  “His very words,” explained Fine with relish. “Needless to say, there was no great mourning in the English office when he moved. No one got up a petition begging him to reconsider; no black-bordered resolution of regret was passed.”

  “If truth be told,” said Marantz, “while there was no dancing between or on the desks, there was quiet rejoicing, more in keeping with the grove of academe.”

  “And now you tell me, Rabbi, that Millie has put you in with him,” said Fine. “Do you wonder we find it amusing?”

  “And a rabbi at that,” said Marantz, shaking his head in wonder.

  “What’s my being a rabbi got to do with it?” asked David Small.

  “Because he’s an anti-Semitic sonofabitch,” said Fine. “Oh, not the Elders of Zion type; more like ‘some of my best friends are Jewish.’”

  “He told me so this morning,” the rabbi admitted.

  “Aha!”

  “But, I didn’t find it offensive. Besides, I don’t expect to be using the office much. I doubt we’ll be seeing much of each other.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Rabbi,” said Marantz, “he’s polite enough. My desk was beside his in the English office for the couple of years that he was there, and I never got into a hassle with him. On the other hand, Fine here has a quick fuse. I’ll bet it’s as much on your account, Roger, that he wanted out of the English office. Unless, he wanted a private place where he could make out with a chick.”

  “So he could lecture her on Chaucerian rhyme schemes?” laughed Fine.

  “It’s hard telling with those dark glasses he always wears, but I seem to have detected a random glint of interest when a good-looking coed passed by.” His face split in a wide grin. “Hey, you don’t suppose it’s Millie he’s got a thing for and that’s why he moved up to the second floor?”

  “Now that would really be something,” said Fine with a chortle and then cut it off. “Cool it,” he said. “Here she comes.”

  Dean Hanbury walked toward them purposively. “There you are, Rabbi. I wanted to make sure you knew where to go for the faculty meeting. Welcome back, Dr. Marantz, Professor Fine.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  President Macomber’s normally cheerful countenance was somber as he listened.

  “There’s no question about it,” the dean said. “Two quizzes were given in that Miss Dunlop’s section and she failed both of them—badly. The final was the departmental exam, the same exam for all seven sections, and consisted of a hundred questions—”

  “A hundred?”

  “That’s right. It was an objective test—short, two- or three-word answers. Each of the section men submitted ten questions and Professor Hendryx added thirty of his own. No one else saw those thirty questions except Professor Fine, who was given the job of mimeographing the exam.”

  “Professor Hendryx’s secretary?” suggested the president.

  “He doesn’t have one. Besides, Professor Hendryx assured me he had typed the stencil himself.”

  “All right.”

  “Kathy Dunlop got an A in the exam, and it averaged out with the two quizzes to give her a C-minus in the course.”

  “She could have studied hard and boned up for it, you know?” the president observed.

  “Professor Hendryx checked with Mr. Bailen, her instructor. The girl answered every single question correctly. Mr. Bailen said he couldn’t have done it himself. Eighty-five right is an A; one hundred is unheard of. The way these objective tests work, no one is expected to get all the answers correct.”

  “All right,” said Macomber. “But why assume Professor Fine is to blame? The girl could have got it from a discarded sheet in the wastepaper basket, or from one of the janitors.”

  Dean Hanbury shook her head. “Professor Fine was instructed to take a reading on the automatic counter before and after running off the stencil. The difference between the two numbers was one hundred and fifty-three, and that was the exact number of copies he turned in to Professor Hendryx.”

  “I see. Did you talk to Professor Fine?”

  “No. I didn’t think it advisable until I had discussed it with you. I might mention that, according to Professor Hendryx, on several occasions Professor Fine has remarked that examinations were a lot of nonsense.”

  “With that attitude I imagine Professor Fine is quite popular with his students,” said Macomber wryly.

  “I believe he is,” she admitted, “and with the younger members of the faculty as well. He’s quite outspoken and is regarded as concerned. That’s the term they use nowadays—concerned: He was the leader in the movement to recruit black students, and even organized a tutoring service for them among the younger members of the faculty. He wrote the article in The Windrift that I showed you, if you remember.”

  “Oh, yes. The red-headed chap? Walks with a cane?”

  “That’s the one. He came at mid-years on a one-year contract, so if you decide to drop him there should be no problem with the AAUP.”

  “Well now,” said Macomber, “let’s not be hasty. Just because he has no tenure and no legal right to a hearing, doesn’t mean it wouldn’t cause a lot of trouble if we failed to grant him one. You yourself say he’s popular with students and faculty. This is just the sort of thing that could be blown up into a student protest. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Millicent, that’s the last thing we need now with school opening in a couple of days.”

  “But a member of the faculty helped a student to cheat! Do you have any idea what could happen if that got out?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s likely. Not if Professor Fine is approached in the proper manner. Suppose we play it this way….”

  Seated in the visitor’s chair, Roger Fine appeared completely at ease except for his whitened knuckles on the hand gripping his cane. “You realize, Miss Hanbury,” he said, “that you have no real proof.”

  “Do you deny it?”

  “I neither deny nor affirm it,” he said negligently. “I don’t think I’m required to answer at all.”

  Dean Hanbury tapped her desk with her fingertips as she gathered her thoughts. Finally she said, “I have not spoken to Miss Dunlop—as yet. I feel certain that if told she must substantiate her phenomenal grade in the final by taking another exam, she will admit everything.” She looked away and then added, “I understand she has a small scholarship from some religious group in Kansas where her father is a minister.”

  “What do you want, Dean Hanbury?”

  “Well,” said the dean, noting the change in tone, “we don’t want a scandal, and we don’t want another confrontation with the students.”

  “In other words, you’d like me to resign quietly.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Since the semester has already started,” said the dean, “I suspect that some of your more concerned friends among the student body and the faculty would realize that your resignation probably had been requested and might initiate the inquiries and possible actions we’re trying to avoid.”

  “Then what exactly are you recommending, Dean Hanbury?”

  Millicent Hanbury, feeling in control now, picked up her yarn and resumed knitting. “You were hired on a one-year contract which expires at the end of this semester,” she said. “We would be happy to have you fulfill your contract, but on the mutual understanding it will not be renewed.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch, Professor Fine. But to insure that you leave quietly at the end of the semester, I’m asking you to sign this paper, which is your admission that you showed the Dunlop girl an advance copy of the exam. I will put it in my safe in a sealed envelope, and that will be the end of it.”

  The room was silent except for the click of the kn
itting needles. “How do you mean the end of it?”

  “Just that,” she said. “We are willing to let the matter rest if you are. When you have fulfilled your contract, you will leave Windemere and the envelope will be destroyed or returned to you.”

  “And how about my getting another job?”

  “We won’t interfere in any way,” she assured him.

  “Let me get this straight, Miss Hanbury,” he said. “If I sign that paper, you put it away and say nothing. You don’t mention it if I apply for another job someplace else, and they write you for reference?”

  “We will make no mention of what is in that paper. We’ll handle it as a matter of form and transmit whatever ratings you’ve been given without comment. I believe Professor Bowdoin gave you a rating before he retired?”

  “Superior.”

  “And your student rating?”

  “Also Superior. But how about Hendryx?”

  “He’s only acting head of your department and so would not be asked to rate you,” she said.

  “All right. Give me the paper. I’ll sign.” He switched his cane to his left hand and reached into his breast pocket for a pen. He glanced at the single typed paragraph and was about to sign when a thought occurred to him. “How about Miss Dunlop?”

  The dean laughed shortly. “Oh, we’re not greatly concerned about her. Dunlop barely passed even with that A on the final. And judging by the rest of her grades, I doubt the girl will stay the distance.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Ever since the death of his wife three years earlier, President Macomber had been a lonely man, rattling around the large President’s House, ministered to by his efficient but dull housekeeper, Mrs. Childs. Outwardly he appeared to maintain an active social life, going out two or three nights a week to meetings, conferences, official dinners. Once a year he was ‘at home’ to the faculty, serving sherry, crackers and cheese, coffee and cake, under the supervision of Mrs. Childs and a crew from the school cafeteria. And once a year, he gave dinner to the board of trustees, a dinner served by outside caterers, much to the annoyance of the estimable Mrs. Childs who regarded it as a reflection on her.

  On those evenings when he stayed home, he read the newspapers after dinner, watched TV or read a book. At ten, Mrs. Childs appeared with tea which she set down on the table beside his easy chair, wished him goodnight, and went off to her own quarters off the kitchen. He usually puttered around until the eleven o’clock newscast and then himself went to bed.

  Just before the fall term Macomber’s daughter Betty called from Reno to announce the glad tidings that her divorce had been granted and that she was taking the next plane out. He indulged in pleasant daydreams that now things would be different. He would now have someone to talk to at breakfast and dinner. Perhaps he might even play hookey some afternoon and sneak in a round of golf. They were both avid golfers.

  She would be his official hostess, and once again he could hold those purely social parties, not connected with business, that he had missed so much since his wife’s death. Of course Betty was still young, thirty-five, and after a while she would develop her own circle of friends, young people with interests different from his. But not for a while yet. She would want some peace and quiet after her unfortunate marriage.

  It did not work out that way. She arrived early in the evening. Her plane had been delayed on the ground and then was locked into a holding pattern for almost an hour before it could land. The gaiety in her voice when she had called him from Reno was gone; she was tired and peevish.

  “That awful plane!” she exclaimed by way of greeting. “I thought I’d have time to lie down for a while, and now I barely have time to shower and change.”

  “You don’t have to change on my account, dear,” said her father. “Mrs. Childs has prepared a quiet little meal. I can’t tell you how I’ve been looking forward to the chance to talk and catch up on things.”

  She was contrite. “Oh, I am sorry, dad, but I’m due at the Sorensons’ for dinner. They’re having a few people over. It’s a kind of freedom party for me—you know, celebrating my divorce. And Gretchen said she had this fascinating man she wanted me to meet.”

  Nor did it change with time. He saw as little of her as when she had been married and living in the suburbs. She went out almost every night, and even when they had dinner together she always seemed rushed.

  “Look, Betty,” he remonstrated, “must you go out again tonight?”

  “Oh, I really have to, Dad. I promised.”

  “But you’ve been out every single night this week.”

  “Dad, I’m thirty-five—”

  “I know that I’m not trying to play the stern paterfamilias, but—”

  “You’ve been a dear, Dad, but you must understand that I have no intention of remaining single for the rest of my life. I mean to get married, and just because I’m thirty-five I can’t waste any time.”

  He was old-fashioned, and the bluntness with which she stated her position embarrassed him a little. “Well, naturally, I want you to get married, Betty. I realize I’m probably being selfish,” he went on, “but I rather hoped that we could have some evenings together, just the two of us. You know, the president of a college, like the president of anything, is a kind of lonely figure. He has to make all sorts of decisions, and almost anyone he turns to for advice, or just to talk out some problem, has an axe to grind.”

  She laughed. “Poor Dad. All right, tomorrow I’ll stay home and—Oh, no, tomorrow I can’t or Thursday either. Perhaps. Friday?”

  The weekend was out of the question, of course, because then she went upcountry to New Hampshire where her son, Billy, was at school.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  Monday was registration day, classes began Tuesday; so Wednesday morning was the first session of Philosophy 268, Jewish Thought and Philosophy; Mon. & Wed. at 9:00, Fri. at 1:00, Admin. Building, Room 22; three credits.

  By a quarter to nine they began to drift in—the freshmen checking the number on the door against the number they had copied down on their program cards, the upper-classmen gravitating to one corner.

  “Hey, Harvey boy!” A tall, willowy youth in yellow plaid slacks, crimson shirt, and a yellow silk kerchief fastened around his neck appeared in the doorway and was instantly hailed by the group in the corner. “How they hanging?”

  “You taking this course?”

  Harvey glanced around the room to see if there were any attractive new girls, then sauntered over. “You bet I’m taking this course.” Harvey Shacter perched his elegantly clad bottom on the arm of the chair occupied by Lillian Dushkin. “Can’t you just sec Uncle Harvey turning down a gift of three credits? You know Cy Berenson? He took it last year and didn’t even take the final. The rabbi let him write a five-hundred-word paper and gave him a B.”

  “Yeah, but Berenson used to wear a yarmelke all the time,” said Henry Luftig, a short, thin, intense young man with a high bony forehead ending in a cap of jet black hair. “The rabbi probably figured he knew the stuff anyway.”

  “Yarmelke? Oh, you mean that black beanie? Okay, if it will guarantee a B I’ll wear a yarmelke.”

  “That will be the day,” Lillian Dushkin giggled. “Come to think of it, you might look cute.”

  “Hey, Lil,” said Aaron Mazonson. “I heard this Rabbi Lamden was a regular swinger. All a chick has to do is sit in the front row and give him an eyeful and she’s practically guaranteed an A.”

  A sophomore nearby joined in. “It’s not Rabbi Lamden this year, it’s a different guy.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “When I registered for the course. My adviser told me when he initialed my program.”

  “Well, it says Rabbi Lamden in the catalogue.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s because it was a last minute change.”

  “Great!” exclaimed Shacter in disgust. “That’s just what I need. My one pipe course, and they get a new guy who will proba
bly want to show how tough he is.”

  “So we’ll set him straight,” said Luftig, grinning.

  Shacter considered, and then he, too, grinned. “Yeah, that’s the idea. We’ll set him straight.”

  * * *

  The street was lined with cars, and the broad granite steps of the administration building were so crowded with students that Rabbi Small had to zigzag his way to the doors. Inside the enclosed area of the Marble, the marble-tiled rotunda, students were swarming about while others were manning tables behind signs: “Support Your School—Buy a Sports Card, Admission to All Athletic Events,” “Subscribe to The Windrift, Your Own Magazine,” “Sign up for the Dramatic Club,” “Concerned? Join the Democratic Party,” “Concerned Students join SDS,” “Hear the Truth—Join The Socialist Study Group.”

  “Hey! You a freshman? Then you’ll want to go to all the games. Sign up here.”

  “Sandra! Coming out for dramatics again this year?”

  “Get your free copy of The Windrift.”

  The rabbi managed the stairs leading to his office without either buying, pledging, or signing anything. Pleased and excited by the unaccustomed activity, he stopped to catch his breath before entering his class.

  There were twenty-eight students present; his class list, sent to him a few days before, showed thirty. He mounted the platform and wrote on the blackboard: “Rabbi David Small, Jewish Thought and Philosophy.” And then announced: “I am Rabbi Small. I will be giving this course instead of Rabbi Lamden who is listed in the catalogue.”

  Harvey Shacter winked at Lillian Dushkin and raised his hand lazily. The rabbi nodded.

  “What do we call you? Professor or Doctor?”

  “Or Rabbi?” from Henry Luftig.

  “Or David?” asked Lillian sweetly.

  “I am neither a doctor nor a professor. Rabbi will do perfectly well.” He gave Miss Dushkin a sharp look and went on, “This is a one-semester course, and the subject is a large one. The most we can hope for is to get some understanding of the basic principles of our religion and how they developed. For you to derive any benefit from the course, however, you’ll have to do a great deal of reading. I shall suggest books from time to time, and within the next couple of weeks or so I hope to have a mimeographed reading list to distribute to you.”