Rogers looked at him sharply. “Well, that’s exactly right, Brad, but still—”
“And I don’t mind admitting,” Ames added, “that it occurred to me it might be better for you to have no official knowledge of this business, since it was slightly irregular.”
“You’re absolutely right, Brad. But you know if you got into a jam, I’d stand by you and back you up.”
“I was thinking politically.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said the district attorney. “In politics you sometimes have to disclaim knowledge of some of the things that are done in your name. But even then, you could rely on me to accept full responsibility.” He scanned his assistant’s face.
“Precisely. So I thought I’d go ahead. If my judgment was wrong—”
“Not at all, Brad. I have every confidence in you. You know that. Now what are your plans for proceeding against the real culprit?”
“We were asked to do nothing, Matt.”
“Nothing? But Brad, a serious crime has been committed in my jurisdiction. A bombing. I can’t just wash my hands of it and make believe it never happened.”
“Not such a serious crime, Matt.”
Rogers was indignant. “You don’t call blowing up a school a serious crime?”
“Oh, there was some damage to the wall in the dean’s office,” said Ames, “some scorching, and a pane of glass in the door of an adjoining office was broken. Probably not a hundred dollars damage altogether. A smart lawyer could get a sympathetic judge to call it a misdemeanor. Besides, it was the government agent who did it.”
“Good Lord!”
Ames squirmed in his scat, his round head wagging as he adjusted the various portions of his body to the chair. “It’s a wicked world we live in, Matt. You see, when you plant an agent in a radical organization like the Weathervanes, he—although in this case it’s a she—can’t just sit back and observe. It’s a small, close-knit organization, and everybody is expected to pull his own weight. And if they initiate action, so much the better. You can see that.”
Rogers nodded seriously.
“But in this case, they weren’t planning to do much damage, just discredit the group that sent the committee to see the dean. Originally, they were only going to organize some sort of counter-demonstration. But when the government agent learned from a source on the committee that they were seeing the dean late Friday afternoon when the school is practically deserted, she seized the opportunity. She waited inside the building and when they left, set off a small charge. It wasn’t expected to cause much damage but would do the job on the committee, since they’d be surely blamed for it.”
“And you say this operative is a woman?”
“A mere slip of a girl, but with a heart full of patriotism.”
Rogers looked doubtfully at his assistant, not sure he was entirely serious. “But dammit, Brad, it did do damage, and somebody got killed.”
“Oh no, we know now that the explosion had nothing to do with that.”
“Oh yes, this man Fine. I hope he’s not going to turn out to be a government agent or anything like that, is he?”
“Don’t worry.” Ames chuckled. “We’ve got a good case against him”
“Well, that’s good.” Rogers rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “And this girl—after this, she must be in solid with the Weathervanes, I mean, after bringing off this caper, she’d be above suspicion?”
“Like Caesar’s wife.”
“What? Oh yes, yes, I see.” He laughed.
“And she’s above suspicion with us, too.”
“Well, naturally …”
“Has it ever occurred to you, Matt, that we’ve come to a rotten state of affairs when we have to use double agents to maintain some semblance of law and order? That we have to wink at one breach of the law to prevent another? And we set ourselves up as the sole arbiters of which is more important. Now isn’t that characteristic of a police state?”
Rogers looked at him doubtfully. He sounded perfectly serious, as though he actually meant this radical sort of talk. But then Ames chuckled, and he knew it was all right.
CHAPTER
FORTY
WHY DON’T JEWS EAT HAM?
WHY DO JEWS WEAR BLACK BEANIES WHEN THEY
PRAY?
GOD IS DEAD. TRUE OR FALSE?
WHY …?
WHY …?
The rabbi stood in the doorway of the classroom, bemused, as he looked over the blackboard with its long list of questions, each written in a different hand.
“You said we could ask questions today,” said Harvey Shacter.
“So I did, Mr. Shacter.” He came into the room, his eye still on the board. “And with a list that long, we’d better get started. We’ll take them in order. Now the first question, about ham: that involves our dietary laws. Briefly, we may eat only the flesh of an animal which has cloven hooves and chews its’ cud. It must satisfy both conditions to qualify as kosher, that is, ritually fit to eat. Fish must have both scales and fins, which rules out shellfish; and fowl with curved beaks and talons—that is, birds of prey—are taboo. Some try to justify these laws on scientific grounds—healthy and nourishing animals are permitted, those liable to disease and hence less fit for human consumption are taboo—but that’s a modern rationalization. Traditionally, we observe the dietary laws because we have been so commanded in the Bible. Now since the pig does not chew its cud, it is considered unclean, and so ham is forbidden.”
“But don’t we have a special thing about the pig that we don’t have about other non-kosher animals?” asked Leventhal.
“Yes, that’s true, Mr. Leventhal. We have a special aversion for the pig, possibly because it was an object of worship among many pagan peoples. But I am inclined to think it is for a more fundamental reason. All the other domestic animals have some utility for man while they are alive: the cow gives milk, the sheep produces wool, the horse performs work and transportation, the dog guards the house, the cat controls mice. Only the pig, of all domestic animals, kosher and non-kosher, serves no purpose except to be slaughtered and eaten. Now our religion forbids cruelty to animals. In fact, there are dozens of regulations in the Bible and in the interpretations of the rabbis that require us to treat the lower animals with kindness: one must not muzzle the ox that treads corn; a donkey and an ox may not be yoked together; beasts of burden must be rested on the Sabbath; hunting for sport is forbidden. With that as our tradition, you can readily understand how raising an animal solely for slaughter would be repugnant to us.”
The rabbi made a checkmark against the question on the board. “All right, let’s go on to the next, the black beanie. Whose is that, by the way?”
Harvey Shacter raised his hand.
“I’ve never heard the kipoh referred to that way,” said the rabbi smiling, “but it’s a good enough description. Why do we wear it? It’s just a matter of custom, Mr. Shacter. There’s no biblical regulation, although I might point out that with us custom takes on the force of law. It doesn’t have to be black and it doesn’t have to be a beanie. Any head covering will do. At times it was the custom to go bareheaded, at other times to be covered, and the latter custom seems to have won out except in Reform temples where they usually pray bareheaded.”
He checked off the question, and then after a moment’s hesitation, checked off the next one, remarking, “‘God is dead’ concerns Protestant theologians rather than Jewish rabbis.”
“Why is that?” called out Henry Luftig.
“Yours, Mr. Luftig?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it’s a theological question, and we have no theology, at least not in the generally accepted sense.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t need one,” said the rabbi simply. “Our religion is based on the idea of a single God, a God of Justice. If you think about it, the concept of justice demands a single God because it implies a single standard. And because He is infinite, He is unknowable to finite mi
nds. We don’t forbid the study of Him, you understand, but we consider it pointless. Much as an engineer would who sees a young colleague trying to construct a perpetual motion machine. He might say: ‘You can work on it if you like, but you’re wasting your time because it’s theoretically impossible.’ So because we believe it’s pointless to try to know the unknowable, we have no theology.”
“Then why do the Christians have one?” demanded Luftig.
“I had intended this session to deal with your questions on Judaism, not Christianity,” the rabbi said reprovingly.
“How can we know about Judaism if we don’t have something to compare it to?” asked Shacter.
The rabbi pursed his lips and considered. “You’re quite right, Mr. Shacter. All right, I’ll try to explain. Like us, the Christians also believe in a single God. But in addition they have another divine being in the form of Jesus as a son of God. And since a son implies a mother, they also have Mary, who is at least semi-divine. Now these familial relationships, between God and Jesus, Mary and Jesus, Mary and God, and all the other possible permutations, to say nothing of the human-divine nature of Jesus—these are not easy to explain.”
“Is that what they call the Holy Trinity?”
“No,” said the rabbi, “that’s the Holy Family. The trinity consists of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and their relationship to each other is the concern of Christian theology. There are very fine distinctions on these matters between the various Christian sects.”
“Yeah, but aren’t those just word games played by priests and ministers?”
“Tens of thousands have been killed in religious wars, from the time of Constantine in the fourth century down to modern times, all because of these so-called word games,” said the rabbi. “No, Mr. Luftig, the arguments of theologians are not to be dismissed lightly.”
Lillian Dushkin waved her hand. “This boy I know, he’s into this Jews for Jesus thing, and he says that Jesus is the Messiah Jews believe in and that he came to save mankind.”
“Save them from what?” It was a young man who took copious notes, and it flicked across the rabbi’s mind that for once, like most of the others, he had been listening rather than writing.
“Saved from hell, of course,” said Mazelman scornfully. “Isn’t that right, Rabbi?”
“Yes, that’s the idea,” he said. “Hell was an attempt to answer the age-old question: why do good men suffer while evil men frequently triumph and prosper? All religions have wrestled with that problem. The Hindus solve it by the doctrine of reincarnation. You get your just deserts in the next life for what you have done in this life. Christian doctrine holds that the wicked burn everlastingly in hell while the virtuous are rewarded by everlasting life in heaven.”
“Pie in the sky,” said Luftig sarcastically.
“That’s a rather irreverent way of putting it, Mr. Luftig.”
“What’s the Jewish answer?” asked Lillian Dushkin. “Don’t we believe in heaven and hell?”
“Not really, Miss Dushkin. Oh, the concept has crept in from time to time, but it’s never really taken hold. Our ‘answer,’ as you put it, is best expressed in the Book of Job, and I’m afraid it is not very comforting. We say it’s just the nature of the world—the sun shines as brightly on the wicked as it does on the good and just—but that goodness is its own reward, while evil carries its own punishment. At least it has the virtue of being realistic and of focusing our attention on this world, and trying to improve it, whereas the Christian view can be said to focus on the next world, regarding this one as a mere stopping-off place. Of course, it developed at a time when the world was troubled, and traditional ideas and institutions were crumbling, much like the present.”
“Like the present?”
“Yes, Mr. Luftig. Just look at the world-wide revolt of young people against what they call the Establishment.”
“Well, maybe that does prove God is dead!” challenged Luftig. “I don’t notice any movement to religion or any new cults—”
“No?” said the rabbi. “Then how would you describe your generation’s sudden fascination with astrology and yoga and Zen and I Ching and Tarot cards and the macrobiotic diet and drugs and communes—Shall I go on?—all of them offering escape or instant knowledge or instant mystical ecstasy.”
He realized from the tense silence that he had spoken with some feeling. To reestablish the easy informality, he went on in his normal voice: “Basically, Christianity is a mystical religion and offers the psychological satisfactions mysticism affords. It is other-worldly, heaven-oriented, while our religion is this-world oriented. We oppose what is evil in the world and enjoy the good things, spiritual and material, it has to offer. We do not shun the world by asceticism or try to rise above it by mysticism, which has no following among the main body of Jews.”
“What about Hassidim?” ventured Mark Leventhal.
The rabbi nodded. “Yes, they lean in that direction, but I would not say the Hassidic movement is central to our tradition. It’s significant that Martin Buber, the chief modern apologist for Hassidism, was a lot more influential with Christian theologians than he was with Jews. We do not believe that the single ecstatic moment of near union with God ensures virtue forever after. With us, it has to be a day-by-day conscious practice of justice and virtue. But it is human virtue we require, not the superhuman virtue of the saint. Our religion calls for us to make a practical adjustment to the world as it is. It is a religion of work and rest, of life and death, of marriage and children, and their training and education, of the joys of living and the necessity to make a living.”
“Well, their religion must work,” said Shacter. “They’re doing a lot more business than we are.”
The class laughed and the rabbi joined in, relieving the tension. “Yes, Mr. Shacter, Christianity is a very pleasant religion. It offers a number of highly desirable responses to questions that have beset man down through the ages. He fears death and finds life too short, and the church offers him a world after death with a life everlasting. All we can offer in that respect is the hope that he will live on in his children and in the memory of his friends. He sees the good man suffering and the wicked prospering, and the church assures him that in the next world all will be redressed. And all we can say is that this is the nature of the world. For the everyday trials and tribulations of life, the church offers him the peace that comes with surrender to the mercy of Christ and the good offices of countless saints to whom he can pray for assistance, even for miracles. And periodically he can renew his faith through communion with his Lord by a magical act. And for us there is no magic, no shortcut, only a lifetime of effort. I suppose that gives another shade of meaning to the saying that it is hard to be a Jew.”
Lillian Dushkin was bewildered. “But if theirs is so much better, why don’t we go in for it?”
The rabbi smiled. “There’s just one little hitch, Miss Dushkin. You have to believe. And we cannot believe.”
“So then what’s in it for us?”
“What’s in it, as you put it so bluntly, is the satisfaction of facing reality.” He saw the class were all attentive now. “It doesn’t permit us to dodge problems, but it does help us to solve them, if only by recognizing they exist. And, after all, isn’t that what the modern world is beginning to do? So after thousands of years it appears our way is at last coming into style. As for who’s doing more business, Mr. Shacter, look about you and you will find that the great changes in thought and attitude that produced modern Western civilization are paralleled in Jewish religious thought—the equality of people, the rights of women, the right of all men to the good things of this life, the improvement of conditions on earth, respect for life in the treatment of the lower animals, the importance of learning.”
“You mean they got them all from us?”
“Whether they did or whether they finally developed them on their own is not particularly important. What is important is that these were inherent in our relig
ion from the beginning, which suggests it accords with reality.”
The bell rang, and with a start the rabbi realized that the hour was over. He realized, too, that he had not made his usual Lead count, and as he glanced about he saw there were twenty-one present more than ever before on a Friday. He smiled and nodded to them in dismissal.
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
Annabelle Fisher was delighted when Selma Rosencranz called to invite her over Friday afternoon. It was so like Selma, to call up and have some friends on the spur of the moment, without planning, without preparation.
“I’ll bake some brownies,” said Annabelle Fisher.
Selma’s home was modern, inside and out. Built of concrete with panels of black plate-glass set in chrome, it had been designed by an architect and even had been written up in a magazine—a fact Selma would casually mention to first-time visitors. “His idea is functional design for living,” she would say, searching for the article. “But here, read it for yourself. He says it a lot better than I can explain it.”
Annabelle pushed the button and the chimes responded with the first four notes of “How Dry I am.” She giggled as always when she heard it; Selma went in for the craziest things. Selma herself, elegant in lounging pajamas and silver slippers, opened the door for her, and then called back inside: “It’s Annabelle Fisher, and she’s brought brownies. Any of you gals who haven’t tasted Annabelle’s brownies have a treat coming.”
Annabelle gave Selma her coat and the box of brownies and went into the vast sunken living room. Flossie Bloom was there along with several others, all of whom Annabelle knew or had at least met.
When Selma reappeared, Annabelle asked whether she was planning on two tables.
“If we get around to playing,” said Selma. “We’ve just been gabbing, waiting for you, and we thought it might be fun if we all went to the service tonight. You’ve been, haven’t you? What’s it like?”
“To the Friday evening service? Oh sure I’ve been—once or twice—with Joe. Why, it’s like, you know, like a Friday evening service. The cantor sings and you pray, and then the rabbi gives a sermon.”
Tuesday the Rabbi Saw Red Page 19
