A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle
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Her returned her attention to Joel. “How do you propose I help you with these ladies?”
“Everybody writes them off as under-educated, under-achieving welfare mothers with little to do but harass honkies like me. But I’m telling you, Rabbi, they’re not as innocent as they appear. For women with supposedly limited resources, they’re well organized. Somebody must be backing them financially.”
Gabby stopped pulling leaves from her artichoke, remembering the women from the New Year’s Eve gala.
“Who’s everybody?” she inquired. “Southeast is a large district and more complex than people credit. These women are not necessarily welfare mothers.” She’d found the stereotype annoying.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “My side is no more immune from easy stereotypes than yours. But the point is real; I do think these ladies have outside financial backing.”
She relented and replied, “I know they petitioned to be relieved from the Coalition dues. Nobody wanted to exclude enthusiastic grassroots workers so we approved their petition. If someone is underwriting their expenses, we certainly don’t know about it.”
His voice was conspiratorial. “I’d be obliged if you’d ask some questions – discreetly, of course.”
She made light of the offer. “You want me to spy on ladies I admire? Loyal members of the Coalition? I think not, Dr. Fox.”
“If MAG receives outside money, they’ve been misrepresenting themselves. I should think the Coalition would like to know what cooks.”
“You might consider asking them yourself. I’ve invited several to participate in discussions during our upcoming Purim celebration. Purim and race relations go hand in glove and we’re planning a seminar on the subject. Some of my members blame the African American community for Bart Skulkin’s murder.”
“Do you know who will represent MAG?”
“Karlene Patrick-Hill and Denise Crosby called my office to inquire about wearing costumes. Karlene is a dedicated Bible student. We told her to read the Book of Esther and dress like the queen.”
“Denise Crosby is a vampire who would love to drink my blood.”
“Then come in disguise,” she grinned, saluting him with her wine glass. “Nobody will recognize you. But don’t misread my willingness to referee a debate. Every bone in my body cries out for controlling firearms. I don’t buy your position, Dr. Fox, but your performance on New Year’s Eve was an eye-opener. You’ve shown me how ignorant we are about guns. Beyond that admission, though, I’m partisan.”
He refilled her glass with California cabernet, carefully twisting the bottle to avoid wine escaping the lip. “That’s fine with me. All I ask is that the NRA gets a fair hearing before people who possess a rudimentary knowledge about firearms.”
After dinner, he drove her back to Ohav Shalom to fetch her own car. As he opened her door for her, he smiled and said, “Best Shabbat I’ve had in a long while. If I come to the Purim festivities dressed like the villain Haman, the anti-gun people will think I’m right in character.”
“You said it,” she said, playfully poking him in the arm. “Thanks for a delicious dinner.”
“Can we do this again? Promise, no more talk about guns.”
“It’s something to think about,” she replied, fumbling with the ignition key.
***
The Scroll of Esther, read on the festival of Purim, tells of two marathon feasts. The first was a 180-day bacchanal ordained by King Ahasuerus and the second, a two-day annual commemoration ordained by Mordecai, uncle of Queen Esther, who was instrumental in preventing the genocide of Persian Jewry. Needless to say, Ohav Shalom had no desire to replicate the 180-day marathon, or even stage a two-day celebration. But it did celebrate Purim for an entire Sunday. Festivities began at 10:00 a.m. and consisted of the recitation of Psalms, singing, dancing, feasting, stories, a concert, and the traditional reading of the Esther megillah. The day ended with dinner for the celebrants. In keeping with the festive mood, almost everybody wore a Biblical costume.
Many women competed in a Queen Esther look-alike contest. No one knew what the original Esther actually looked like, of course, but her beauty had thoroughly captivated King Ahasuerus. The men were more imaginative. Some fulfilled dark fantasies in the garb of Jewish history’s arch-villain Haman, while others took the part of the folk hero Mordecai. Religious school classes and teachers, women’s groups, and the brotherhood presented a series of Purim spiels, or plays, in the synagogue auditorium. As usual on this holiday, Gabby delivered an original story in costume with as much dramatic flair as she, untrained theatrically, could muster.
After the reading from the Esther scroll, participants broke into discussion groups. Purim is a holiday of violence. It commemorates Haman’s plan to annihilate the Jews in the Kingdom of Media and Persia. Queen Ester foiled the plot and, afterwards, Jews took revenge upon their would-be killers. The retribution against Haman and his sinister clan has long fueled modern debate, for Jews are more accustomed to thinking of themselves as victims than killers. This year the subject of blood vengeance was particularly sensitive since one of Ohav Shalom’s children had been recently murdered in Fort Dupont Park. Gabby’s congregants were distressed that no arrests had been made. In public, they were careful not to frame this killing in racial terms. But in the relative privacy of the synagogue their hostility emerged. Was the lack of progress due to police incompetence or was it due to an anti-Semitic indifference on the part of the black officials running the city?
Mothers Against Guns sent five women, their colorful, braided hats from the Ivory Coast looking surprisingly similar to woven yarmulkes from Israel, to discuss the deterioration in relations between blacks and Jews. The perfume emanating from their colorful African gowns and bespangled blouses evoked the presence of African crocuses.
Gabby listened but did not speak in their group discussions. Relations between African Americans and Jews had been a roller coaster, sometimes soaring into the clouds with great promise and, just as often, plunging earthward with suspicion and recrimination. In Jewish advocacy of government spending on education, housing, and job creation, the Mothers Against Guns found little to oppose. But when Jews addressed law and order on the streets, a wide gulf opened. Gabby was forced to conclude, in silence, that race relations between blacks and Jews worked best in the abstract; as soon as they discussed details, their paths collided. The need to break for lunch in the indoor basketball court prevented differences of viewpoint from flaring into anger.
Pillows had replaced tables and chairs on the hardwood floor of the court to remind celebrants of the Feast of Mordecai in ancient Persia. Humas, tahini, pita, falafel, shaslik, tomatoes and cucumbers, juices, and strong Turkish coffee linked lunch with the geographic region where Jews were once delivered from the tyrant’s hand. An Israeli ensemble entertained on the recorder, cymbal, zither, and drum—instruments used in Biblical times. After the meal, the assembly moved to the main sanctuary for a dramatic presentation of the Esther narrative by members of Ohav Shalom’s Drama Club. When they finished, Gabby, now clad in Scandinavian dress, with a white blouse, blue scarf, and a dark skirt, stepped to the pulpit. A yellow Carnation adorned her hair. Her congregants, who expected a Purim-themed story, buzzed about her costume.
She attached a radio-microphone to her lapel. In her hand was a square envelope, whose seal she dramatically broke. She placed the half-lenses she needed for reading on the bridge of her nose and, peering up over the rims to the audience, watched their eyes follow her as she unfolded a letter.
“Between Men,” she began, giving the expectant congregants the title of her story. She held their collective gaze for a moment, and then dropped her eyes to read aloud.
“Solomo Ami-Chai, Ph.D.
Do’ar Merkazi (Central Post Office),
P.O. Box 473, Jerusalem, Israel.
“Miss Amelia Krulin,
18a Karelina Street,
Helsinki, Finland 2022-E65.3,17 July, 1967.”
“Dear Miss Krulin,“ Gabby continued softly, “How strange it must seem to receive this letter postmarked from Jerusalem. I am a stranger and the country from which I write must seem very far away indeed. Please forgive my English, for it is not my mother tongue any more than it is yours. Still, I have reason to believe you know it better than I do. I wish I could say in a few words what I must, but it may require many. Please do not judge me until you finish and, when you do, try to understand my point of view.
“I, like yourself, come from a small country. Actually, my parents came from Lithuania, not far from Finland, where they fled from the Nazis before the World War. They were among those Jews who came to Palestine and later established the state of Israel. I think you must have been a very little girl when that occurred.
“I know you once lived in Amman and no doubt you have heard much propaganda against Israel. I cannot force you to take our point of view, but please realize that it was never our intention that Arabs suffer because of us. The establishment of this nation was, for our desperate people, an absolute necessity. It is an indisputable fact that the Arab governments have consistently refused to cooperate with us. And this, in brief, caused the Six Days War in which I fought.
“On June 7, after the Arab Legion opened fire on the Jewish sector of Jerusalem, my company of reservists was ordered to capture Jordanian positions inside the Old City. Subsequently, I read that our government had contacted King Hussein by messenger, pleading with him not to begin fighting. Israel pledged to hold back if he did not enter the war with his allies. As everybody knows, he rejected the offer and attacked. Yet now that is all history. The political question is of little importance to me.
“Early in the morning, my regiment engaged the Jordanian Legionnaires south of Mount Zion. I was very frightened because they fired upon us from well-concealed positions. Bullets and mortar shells hit all around. A good friend, whom I had known from school days, received a bullet in his groin and when our medic ran out to assist him, both were destroyed by a mortar blast. When we attacked the Dung Gate of the Old City, the Legionnaires were waiting for us on rooftops and caught the first squad with heavy machine gun fire. More than half were killed or wounded. If you have never been in a battle you cannot imagine the sense of fear that seizes you. Noise from the guns is deafening. One is so frightened that the only thing he can do is to keep fighting, keep shooting, and hope to keep moving forward with his comrades. Though deep down I wanted to run away, I kept to my job. I was a major, and many men depended upon me.
“War is ugly. I saw hundred of Legionnaires and many Israelis destroyed in the Old City. We moved around the eastern wall under heavy bazooka and mortar fire. Snipers kept shooting from almost every direction. Our platoon came to Saint Stephen’s Gate. There the Legionnaires were concentrating to escape since our forces were pressing from the north. When you lived in Amman, did you ever visit Jerusalem? Certainly you must have. No doubt you will recall some of the places I mention.
“Due to the long narrow corridor leading to St. Stephen’s Gate, my two reconnaissance squads had to separate. From that point on we had to rely upon hand weapons while hiding behind walls, rock, or whatever lay in our path. We advanced through the gate, running to forward positions near the Church of St. Anne. At that moment, we received word by walkie-talkie that our soldiers who had not yet entered the Old City were being mauled. About fifty had been killed. I was horrified to realize that my companies were totally cut off inside the Old City walls.
“Legionnaires began shooting at us from the east. Had they used mortars, not one of us would have survived. We were shooting wildly at the snipers and they killed three of my men. Another took a bullet in his hip and could not run. Frankly, I didn’t know what to do, for it was impossible to move forward or retreat. Legionnaires held positions in the taller buildings around us and, had it not been for the cover of the stone walls, we would have been annihilated. I maneuvered my men to concentrate their strength against the Jordanian soldiers near the Antonia Tower, by the inner compound of the Dome of the Rock. To check a possible escape route, I whipped myself into a narrow passage that appeared to go east and west. Just as I fell for protection behind three small steps leading into a compound of tiny shops, a Legionnaire officer exposed himself about 50 feet away, waving and yelling to his men in the rear. I did not think but pressed the trigger of my Uzi. The officer gazed unbelievingly at his stomach. Then he looked at me with blood flowing from the wound that another one of my bullets had cut through his jaw. It seemed as if he wanted to see his killer before he fell. My men finally came to support me. They killed four more Jordanian soldiers before the remainder retreated in the direction of the Dome. It all happened very fast and I didn’t take time to think about what had occurred. I remember now that I killed him as an object, just as I participated in the deaths of other enemy soldiers during the fighting. To me, he wasn’t a man, but a thing. He was an enemy, something that stood between me and life. My Uzi almost fired by itself; it was the finger of my instinct that depressed the trigger, not me as a human being.
“Shortly after this confrontation, our situation eased a bit. My radioman told me that our men had finally forced the Legionnaires to retreat from Saint Stephen’s Gate, which meant that now things were going in our favor. My soldiers were the first to enter the inner compound of the Dome, close to the Paraetorium. By then it was mostly a mopping-up movement. I commanded my squads to fan out and patrol the area. I myself instinctively returned to the place where I had shot the Jordanian officer. I can’t recall exactly what drove me to it. Perhaps it was the motivation of a criminal returning to the scene of his crime.
“The street was deserted except for the five bodies. I knelt down to survey the area— sort of hoping a sniper would force me away. The sun was very hot. My combat pack caused me to perspire. I was curious about the officer lying on the cobblestones, so I crept near his body, hugging the walls in case of sniper fire. His face was spattered with blood. He was good looking, with a clean-clipped moustache and very dark eyes. Like me, he was a major. Suddenly, I heard one of my sergeants calling from the passageway. He yelled for me to come quickly. I took a second look at the officer and noticed that a large wallet had partially slipped from his pocket. I looked back at the sergeant who had momentarily retreated. Temptation overcame me at that moment. I quickly freed the wallet from the dead man’s pocket and stuffed it into my fatigues. Not thinking of anything in particular, I ran back to our position.
“I know that taking the wallet was wrong. In the Israeli forces this is a crime. Normally it is indefensible. We have even prosecuted some of our soldiers for looting. But generally, most armies overlook theft if it isn’t done in excess. I’m not trying to exonerate myself, but petty theft is the common soldier’s reward for his exposure to death. After all, the generals, seldom endangered on the front lines, get all the glory if we win. So we possess as a substitute for glory. It must be hard for you to imagine the temptation to take things from the enemy, especially if he is dead. It is death that, in its own way, justifies the act, for you ask yourself how a dead man could value what you are taking. For you, the victor, it is a souvenir. And was it not the custom of the Greeks to carry the armor of their enemies back to Athens? Didn’t the Romans collect the armor of the Persians, and so on? In war the rights and wrongs don’t seem as clear. Our army is better than most in this respect, but we are human, too. And even my government cannot be overly righteous on this issue. For when it comes to raw facts, we shall retain the Old City of Jerusalem not as a divine right, but as a spoil of war. Though we did not start the war, we are entitled to the spoils if we win. History is founded on this principle.
“Today, I feel ashamed that I stole that wallet. But I cannot judge myself too severely since I recall the feelings we all shared during battle. And if I had lain dead in the street, wouldn
’t that Jordanian have taken my valuables? I took nothing for greed or wealth. I don’t actually know what possessed me, whether it was curiosity or the need to have a token from a soldier I killed. Now, a month and a half later, I honestly believe I just didn’t want to leave him dead and nameless. But my memory, I confess, is clouded in the smoke of the guns.
“The war, if you can honestly call it that, came to a happy end for us in Israel. I returned to my home and resumed my work as a hydroelectric engineer. I stored my weapons with our regiment, but my uniform I wore home. There was much jubilation upon the victory—parties, singing, feasting, and celebrations. At least there were for those of us in the Reserves; while we went back to our families and friends, the Regular Army had to police the newly conquered territories. I forgot about the incident completely. At gatherings, I told stories of the ambush near the Dung Gate and the later capture of Nebi Samuel to the north.
“My mother took my battle clothes to wash them. She emptied the pockets of several small items, putting them in a pile on my desk. Apparently she thought the wallet was mine for she never mentioned it to me. Soon afterwards I was called to France for technical consultations connection with my occupation. When I returned, I found the wallet my mother had left on my desk. Suddenly, I recalled the incident in which I had taken it. I closed the door to my room and sat on my bed to inspect its contents.
“I found eight Jordanian pounds, postage stamps, some notes scribbled in Arabic, and several identification cards. Tucked into the inner compartment was the letter you wrote to him on May 10th. From the contents, which I read, I assume these two photographs are you, taken in 1964 and 1965 when you worked in Amman with the Red Cross. From reading his reply (unfinished), which I also enclose, I learned he had plans to visit you in Helsinki sometime in September and that the two of you were considering marriage. The warmth and tenderness of his letter brought tears to my eyes and I couldn’t summon the strength to leave my room for the rest of the day.