Friday the Rabbi Slept Late

by Harry Kemelman

  Friday The Rabbi Slept Late

  Harry Kemelman

  Copyright

  Friday the Rabbi Slept Late

  Copyright © 1964, 2002 Ann Kemelman

  Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2009 by RosettaBooks, LLC

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  First electronic edition published 2009 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

  ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795305498

  To my

  Father and Mother

  Contents

  The Creation of Rabbi Small

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  The Creation of Rabbi Small

  A Special Foreword by Harry Kemelman

  I was born and grew up in a Jewish neighborhood in Boston. We moved several times, but always to a Jewish neighborhood, that is, one which had enough Jews to support a Jewish butcher shop and a Jewish grocery where you could buy herring and hard-crusted rye bread rather than the wax-wrapped loaf advertised as “untouched by human hand” (understandably) that was sold in the chain stores. These had to be within walking distance of one’s home. Few people had cars in those days, and even those were stored in a garage for the winter since streets were not plowed, only sanded. Any area that could support these two was also able to support a shul or a synagogue.

  I stayed out of school for every Jewish holiday, accompanying my father to the synagogue, mumbling the required passages as fast as I could but never as fast as my father. He would recite the Amidah and sit down before I was halfway through, even though I skipped a lot. During the High Holidays, when the synagogue was jammed, I would say I was going up to the balcony to see my mother, and then skip out and play with the other youngsters, and later when I was a teenager, stand around and flirt with the girls.

  Although everyone in the congregation recited the passages in Hebrew, only a few knew the meaning of the words they were saying.

  We did not pray, at least not in the sense of asking or beseeching. We davened, which consisted of reciting blessings expressing our gratitude, reading passages from the Bible and the Psalms. What petitionary prayers there were, were for the land of Israel and for the Jewish nation as a whole. It is perhaps simplistic, but nevertheless indicative, that our equivalent of “Give us this day our daily bread” is “Blessed art thou, O Lord, for bringing forth bread from the earth.”

  Fifty years ago, I moved to the Yankee town that I have called Barnard’s Crossing in my books, where the few Jews in the area had decided to establish a synagogue. Of necessity, since there were so few of us, it was set up as a Conservative synagogue so that the few older members who were likely to be Orthodox on the one hand and the Reform on the other, would not feel the service too strange. In point of fact, most of them knew little or nothing of their religion. They were second and third generation Americans; their parents had received little from their immigrant parents and passed on even less to their children. Only one or two of the older Orthodox members kept kosher homes.

  They knew about religion in general from their reading or from the movies they had seen, but little or nothing of the tenets of Judaism. Typical was the reaction of the young lawyer who had asked the rabbi they had engaged to bless the Cadillac he had just bought. He was surprised and hurt when the rabbi refused and said he did not bless things. The friends in the synagogue whom he told of the rabbi’s refusal felt much the same way.

  I was fascinated by the disaccord between the thinking of the rabbi and that of the congregation, and the problems it gave rise to. So I wrote a book about it. My editor, Arthur Fields, thought the book too low-keyed and suggested jokingly that I could brighten it up by introducing some of the exciting elements in the detective stories that I had written. As I passed by the large parking lot of our synagogue it occurred to me that it was an excellent place to hide a body. And as a rabbi is one who is learned in the law and whose basic function is to sit as a judge in cases brought before him, it seemed to me that he was the ideal character to act as an amateur detective by searching out the truth. Thus was born Rabbi David Small.

  1

  THEY SAT IN THE CHAPEL AND WAITED. THEY WERE STILL only nine, and they were waiting for the tenth so that they could begin morning prayers. The elderly president of the congregation, Jacob Wasserman, was wearing his phylacteries, and the young rabbi, David Small, who had just arrived, was putting his on. He had withdrawn his left arm from his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve to the armpit. Placing the little black box with its quotation from the Scriptures on the upper arm—next to the heart—he bound the attached strap seven times around his forearm, and then thrice around his palm to form the first letter of the Divine Name, and finally around his middle finger as a ring of spiritual betrothal to God. This, together with the headpiece which he now placed on his forehead, was in literal response to the biblical injunction: “Thou shalt bind them (the words of God) for a sign upon thine hand, and they shall be for a frontlet between thine eyes.”

  The others, who were dressed in silken-fringed prayer shawls and black skullcaps, sat around in small groups talking, glancing idly through their prayer books, occasionally checking their watches against the round clock on the wall.

  The rabbi, now prepared for morning service, strolled up and down the center aisle, not impatiently, but like a man who has arrived early at the railroad station. Snatches of conversation reached him: talk about business, about family and children, about vacation plans, about the chances of the Red Sox. It was hardly the proper conversation for men waiting to pray, he thought, and then immediately rebuked himself. Was it not also a sin to be too devout? Was not man expected to enjoy the good things of this life? the pleasures of family? of work—and of resting from work? He was still very young, not quite thirty, and introspective, so that he could not help raising questions, and then questioning the questions.

  Mr. Wasserman had left the room and now returned. “I just called Abe Reich. He said he’d be down in about ten minutes.”

  Ben Schwarz, a short, plumpish, middle-aged man, got up abruptly. “That does it for me,” he muttered. “If I have to be beholden to that sonofabitch Reich to make up a minyan, I’ll do my praying at home.”

  Wasserman hurried over and halted him at the end of the aisle. “Surely you’re not going now, Ben? That will leave us only nine, even when Reich gets here.”

  “Sorry, Jacob,” said Schwarz stiffly, “I’ve got an important appointment and I’ve got to leave.”

  Wasserman spread his hands. “You have come to say Kaddish for your father, so what kind of appointment can you have that can’t wait a few minutes longer so you can pay respects to him?” In his mid-sixties, Wasserman was older than most of the members of the congregation, and he spoke with a faint accent which manifested itself not so much in mispronounced words as in the special care he took to pronounce them correctly. He saw that Schwarz was wavering. “Besides, I have Kaddish myself today, Ben.”


  “All right, Jacob, stop churning my emotions. I’ll stay.” He even grinned.

  But Wasserman wasn’t finished. “And why should you be sore at Abe Reich? I heard what you said. You two used to be such good friends.”

  Schwarz needed no prompting. “I’ll tell you why. Last week—”

  Wasserman held up his hand. “The business with the automobile? I heard it already. If you feel he owes you some money, sue him and get it over with.”

  “A case like this you don’t take to court.”

  “Then settle your differences some other way. But in the temple we shouldn’t have two prominent members who they can’t even stand to be in the same minyan. It’s a shame.”

  “Look, Jacob—”

  “Did you ever think that’s the real function of a temple in a community like his? It should be a place where Jews should settle their differences.” He beckoned the rabbi over. “I was just saying to Ben here that the temple is a holy place, and all Jews who come here should be at peace with each other. Here they should make up their differences. Maybe that’s more important for the temple than just a place to pray. What do you think?”

  The young rabbi looked from one to the other uncertainly. He reddened. “I’m afraid I can’t agree, Mr. Wasserman,” he said. “The temple is not really a holy place. The original one was, of course, but a community synagogue like ours is just a building. It’s for prayer and study, and I suppose it is holy in the sense that anywhere a group of men gathers to pray is holy. But settling differences is not traditionally the function of the temple, but of the rabbi.”

  Schwarz said nothing. He did not consider it good form for the young rabbi to contradict the president of the temple so openly. Wasserman was really his boss, besides being old enough to be his father. But Jacob did not seem to mind. His eyes twinkled and he even seemed pleased.

  “So if two members of the temple quarrel, what would you suggest, rabbi?”

  The young man smiled faintly. “Well, in the old days I would have suggested a Din Torah.”

  “What’s that?” asked Schwarz.

  “A hearing, a judgment,” the rabbi answered. “That, incidentally, is one of the rabbi’s main functions—to sit in judgment. In the old days, in the ghettos of Europe, the rabbi was hired not by the synagogue but by the town. And he was hired not to lead prayers or to supervise the synagogue, but to sit in judgment on cases that were brought to him, and to pass on questions of law.”

  “How did he make his decisions?” asked Schwarz, interested in spite of himself.

  “Like any judge, he would hear the case, sometimes alone, sometimes in conjunction with a pair of learned men from the village. He would ask questions, examine witnesses if necessary, and then on the basis of the Talmud, he would give his verdict.”

  “I’m afraid that wouldn’t help us much,” said Schwarz with a smile. “This is about an automobile. I’m sure the Talmud doesn’t deal with automobile cases.”

  “The Talmud deals with everything,” said the rabbi flatly.

  “But automobiles?”

  “The Talmud doesn’t mention automobiles, of course, but it does deal with such things as damages and responsibility. Particular situations differ from age to age, but the general principles remain the same.”

  “So, Ben,” asked Wasserman, “are you ready to submit your case for judgment?”

  “It wouldn’t bother me any. I don’t mind telling my story to anybody. The more the better. I’d just as soon the whole congregation knew what a louse Abe Reich is.”

  “No, I mean it seriously, Ben. You and Abe are both on the board of directors. You’ve both given I don’t know how many hours of your time to the temple. Why not make use of the traditional Jewish way of settling an argument?”

  Schwarz shrugged his shoulders. “As far as I’m concerned …”

  “How about you, rabbi? Would you be willing—”

  “If Mr. Reich and Mr. Schwarz are both willing, I will hold a Din Torah.”

  “You’ll never get Abe Reich to come,” Schwarz said.

  “I’ll guarantee that Reich will be there,” said Wasserman.

  Schwarz was interested now, even eager. “All right, how do we go about it? When do you have this—this Din Torah, and where do you have it?”

  “Is this evening all right? In my study?”

  “Fine with me, rabbi. You see, what happened was that Abe Reich—”

  “If I am to hear the case,” the rabbi asked gently, “don’t you think you ought to wait until Mr. Reich is present before you tell your story?”

  “Oh sure, rabbi. I didn’t mean—”

  “Tonight, Mr. Schwarz.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The rabbi nodded and strolled away. Schwarz watched his retreating figure and then said, “You know, Jacob, when you come right down to it, this is a kind of silly thing that I’ve agreed to do.”

  “Why silly?”

  “Because—because here I’ve agreed to what amounts to a regular trial.”

  “So?”

  “So who is the judge?” He nodded in the direction of the rabbi, moodily, noting the young man’s ill-fitting suit, his rumpled hair, his dusty shoes. “Look at him—a boy, like a college kid. I’m practically old enough to be his father, and I should let him try me? You know, Jacob, if that’s what a rabbi is supposed to be—I mean, a kind of judge—then maybe Al Becker and some of the others who say we ought to have an older, more mature man, maybe they’re right. Do you really think Abe Reich will agree to all this?” A sudden thought occurred to him. “Say, Jacob, if Abe doesn’t agree, I mean if he doesn’t appear at the what-do-you-call-it, does that mean the case goes to me by default?”

  “There’s Reich now,” said Wasserman. “We’ll begin in a moment. And about tonight, don’t worry; he’ll be there.”

  The rabbi’s study was on the second floor, overlooking the large asphalt parking lot. Mr. Wasserman arrived as the rabbi drove up, and the two men went upstairs together.

  “I didn’t know you were planning to come,” said the rabbi.

  “Schwarz began to get cold feet, so I said I would be present. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Tell me, rabbi,” Wasserman went on, “have you ever done this before?”

  “Held a Din Torah? Of course not. As a Conservative rabbi, how would I have been likely to? For that matter, in Orthodox congregations here in America, who thinks to go to the rabbi for Din Torah these days?”

  “But then—”

  The rabbi smiled. “It will be all right, I assure you. I am not entirely unaware of what goes on in the community. I have heard rumors. The two men were always good friends and now something has come up to upset their friendship. My guess is that neither one is very happy about this quarrel and both are only too anxious to make up. Under the circumstances, I ought to be able to find some common ground between them.”

  “I see,” said Wasserman, nodding. “I was beginning to be a little worried. As you say, they were friends. And that for a long time. In all probability when the story comes out it will turn out to be the wives that are behind it. Ben’s wife, Myra, she’s a regular kochlefel. She’s got a tongue on her.”

  “I know,” said the rabbi sadly. “Only too well.”

  “Schwarz is a weak man,” Wasserman went on, “and in that household it’s the wife who wears the pants. They used to be good neighbors, the Schwarzes and the Reichs, and then Ben Schwarz came into some money when his father died a couple of years ago. Come to think of it, it must have been a couple of years ago today, because he came to say Kaddish. They moved out to Grove Point and began to hobnob with the Beckers and the Pearlsteins—that crowd. I suspect that a good part of this is just Myra trying to break away from her old associations.”

  “Well, we’ll know soon enough,” said the rabbi. “That must be one of them now.”

  The front door banged and they heard steps on the stairs. The outer door opened and closed again an
d in came Ben Schwarz and, a moment later, Abe Reich. It was as though each had waited to see whether the other would show up. The rabbi motioned Schwarz to a seat at one side of the desk and Reich at the other.

  Reich was a tall man, quite handsome, with a high forehead and iron-gray hair brushed back. There was a touch of the dandy about him. He wore a black suit with narrow lapels and side pockets aslant in the continental style. His trousers were slim and cuffless. He was the division sales manager of a national low-price shoe company and he had an air of dignity and executive decisiveness. He strove to hide his present embarrassment by looking indifferent.

  Schwarz, too, was embarrassed, but he tried to pass off the whole matter as a joke, an elaborate gag his good friend Jake Wasserman had cooked up and which he was prepared to go along with, as a good guy.

  Schwarz and Reich had not spoken since entering the room; in fact they avoided looking at each other. Reich began by talking to Wasserman, so Schwarz addressed himself to the rabbi.

  “Well,” he said with a grin, “what happens now? Do you put on your robe and do we all rise? Is Jacob the clerk of the court or is he the jury?”

  The rabbi smiled. Then he hitched up his chair to indicate that he was ready to begin. “I think you both understand what’s involved here,” he said easily. “There are no formal rules of procedure. Normally it is customary for both sides to acknowledge the jurisdiction of the court and willingness to abide by the rabbi’s decision. In this case I won’t insist on it, however.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Reich. “I’m willing to abide by your decision.”

  Not to be outdone, Schwarz said, “I certainly don’t have anything to fear. I’ll go along, too.”

  “Fine,” said the rabbi. “As the aggrieved party, Mr. Schwarz, I suggest that you tell us what happened.”

  “There isn’t very much to tell,” said Schwarz. “It’s pretty simple. Abe, here, borrowed Myra’s car, and through sheer negligence he ruined it. I’ll have to pay for a whole new motor. That’s it in a nutshell.”