by Roger Herst
“You’re going to have a hard time convincing me you’re timid,” he laughed. “Not after your picture in this morning’s paper.”
She stopped abruptly, almost causing him to plow into her. “The Post? I haven’t had a chance to look at it this morning.”
“Yes, ma’am. It showed you at the Izaak Walton Range, packing a rifle.”
“Oh no,” she gulped, her stomach feeling as if it would plummet into her intestines.
Suddenly she knew why it was necessary to move the coffee and bagel hour. At the firing range, she had been so preoccupied with preventing a catastrophe that she had ignored the press. Evidently the journalists had not ignored her! Her mind flooded with images of reporters with handheld cameras and attractive female commentators breathlessly hyping the story. How foolish to have been oblivious to this.
“That’s all I need.” Her response sounded feeble.
“Actually, it’s quite a flattering picture. You look like a heroine in a shoot ’em up movie. These days you see lots of police officers with weapons. Occasionally, you even see a lawyer sporting a pistol. But I can’t recall seeing a minister with a gun. Especially not a woman.”
“Sorry to be the first,” she said, turning in the direction of the social hall. But she did not continue on. Instead, she returned to her study to compose herself before facing hostile fire.
***
Meyerhoff Hall was a high-ceilinged auditorium on the synagogue’s ground floor that had been refurbished in the 1970s for special meetings and banquets. For the discussion, folding chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle, with a central aisle that faced the speaker’s table. Danishes, bagels, cream cheese, orange juice, and coffee had been set out on one side of the room so that participants could serve themselves. The meeting with Sergeant Miller had made Gabby about eleven minutes late and, when she arrived, heated discussion was already in progress. Though she had not eaten breakfast and was looking forward to a midday nosh, she bypassed the buffet table and strode down the center aisle. Voices guttered out, leaving a pregnant silence. On the head table lay a copy of The Washington Post. She had taken an early morning jog along the C&O Canal towpath, returned to her condo for a shower, and failed to do more than lift her newspaper from the doorstep—always a bad idea in Washington. Not to know about events covered in the papers could be embarrassing, especially when you were the event!
“Sorry I’m late,” she apologized. “Please don’t let me interfere with your discussions.”
Gracie Menatoff, an outspoken part of the debate in progress, announced to Gabby, “We were discussing your picture.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen the papers this morning,” Gabby replied, taking up the newspaper. “I just heard about this a moment ago. Please give me a second to take a peek before I respond.”
“Page one, Metro section,” a female voice offered.
Gabby shuffled through the pages, feeling many sets of eyes upon her. Once she reached the Metro section, her picture seemed to jump off the page. The caption read:
Rabbi Means Business at Area Rifle Range
The 4x5 inch photo showed her standing in front of the Izaak Walton clubhouse in jeans and a blouse, with musket in hand and a purposeful expression on her face. She didn’t bother to read the text—she already knew exactly what had happened—but she was acutely aware that she would have to walk a tightrope between what people perceived and what had actually occurred.
She shook her head and whistled softly. “Well, well, I wish I had seen this before coming to work this morning. I’m undone.”
“It’s shaken us, too, Rabbi,” trumpeted Bill Cohen, a lawyer with the Environmental Protection Agency. “We’ve heard you speak out against guns on many occasions and had no idea you would use one in a public meeting. How gullible of us! That you would use a firearm to threaten somebody is beyond belief.”
She sparked with anger at the misperception, her initial impulse to lash out in a denial, but quickly regained control of herself and chose to avoid a frontal attack. “Fortunately, no harm came to anyone,” she said. “But I can tell you, I was scared that shooting might break out. I prefer not to think how close it came. And just for the record, I am definitely not a gun enthusiast. You all know my views on what must be done to stop senseless killing with firearms. Nothing has changed. If I had my way, we’d control not just handguns but all firearms.”
Eudora Sampson, a petite woman with a melodic voice she employed to great effect at public gatherings, pushed back her chair with a screech, to speak on her feet. “That sounds good, Rabbi Lewyn, but this is an embarrassment for the congregation. We want others to think of our rabbis as scholarly and meditative, not gunslingers from the Wild West. According to the article, you played a mediating role in this conflict—not by virtue of wisdom or persuasion, but at gunpoint. I’m sure that’s not the way rabbis are expected to conduct business. If you’re not a gun lover, could you tell us what you were doing at a rifle range?”
The assault revived Gabby’s urge to snap back, but she methodically put down the newspaper, leaned against the table, and then perched on its edge, allowing her legs to dangle. Her toes kept her shoes from slipping off. She knew how important it was to appear relaxed, if she hoped to persuade her disturbed congregants that there was more to this story than they had read in the paper. A careful modulation of her voice would help her produce the desired effect.
“Of course,” she said with a smile. “You’re entitled to an explanation. I accepted an invitation from Dr. Joel Fox, a local dentist, to observe a club he runs for disadvantaged youth. Many of you won’t agree with the purpose of this club and, in fact, I had, and still have, my own reservations. Dr. Fox is a confirmed gun lover and hunter. As you know, it’s rare to find a Jew who likes to hunt, but he claims there are many Jewish gun lovers like himself —men and women who are responsible gun owners and hunting enthusiasts. He’s also a board member of the National Rifle Association in Reston, Virginia, and you all know about its famous lobby on Capitol Hill. On Saturday afternoons, he brings kids from the inner city to the Izaak Walton Range in Maryland to learn about gun safety. Sounds like mishegas, doesn’t it? But he claims more people are injured and killed in accidents with guns than in crimes. And that’s especially true for youngsters, he says; particularly in neighborhoods in which police enforcement is lax and citizens arm themselves for protection. Fox has data to show that the more guns in a given population, the more accidents will occur. It’s his position that few community leaders take this problem seriously, so nobody is training youngsters how to handle firearms safely.”
“With all deference, I don’t buy that, Rabbi,” said Frederick Law from the second row. He was a tall, slender man who consumed the tight space as he stood. A blue blazer, with a prestigious boating emblem on the breast pocket, hung on his scarecrow frame. “One gun breeds another. The more guns, the more crime. The more crime, the more loss of life. Instructing children about guns is an outrage. I don’t wish to be rude, but this whole affair curdles my blood. The rabbi of Ohav Shalom has no business encouraging such behavior.”
“That’s an oversimplification,” rejoined a woman who didn’t rise from her chair to be seen. “If you’d read the article carefully, Fred, you’d understand that Rabbi Lewyn was responding to a potentially dangerous situation. I’m personally against guns, but how can you write off our rabbi so blithely? Or this Dr. Fox? We all deplore the carnage caused by firearms. One of our own boys recently lost his life on the streets. Law enforcement is doing everything it can to prevent guns being used in crime, but as I understand it, Dr. Fox is one of the few trying to prevent shooting accidents. Do you know of anybody else, Fred? If this dentist is right about how many injuries are sustained in accidents, then it makes perfect sense to train kids. In America, cars cause far more injuries than guns and we spend millions teaching teenagers how to drive.”
“You’re missing the point!” Fred Law barked. “Without guns we wouldn’t ha
ve gun accidents. I’d like our rabbi to tell us how we could have innocent people held up and shot if criminals couldn’t get guns. Without them, Bart Skulkin would be alive today.”
Gabby resisted the temptation to feel sorry for herself. She had never held a gun before she’d fired the .22 on the rifle range. If a photographer had not taken her picture with the musket, nobody would have known she’d ever touched one. She moved from the table to her feet and stepped closer to Frederick Law in a conciliatory gesture. “Fred, allow me to ask a question in response to yours. Until very recently, the District of Columbia had the strongest gun laws in the nation. So why have we had, for years, such an unacceptable number of armed crimes?”
The other participants did not allow Fred Law to answer. Instead they paraphrased Gabby’s question as if it needed clarification. As she scanned the animated faces, she caught sight of Dov Shellenberg at the rear door, flanked by Ruth Ann Silverman, president-elect of Ohav Shalom, and Norman Gruin, a synagogue trustee. They paused momentarily at the refreshment table, but seemed uninterested in the food. Dov was normally occupied in the religious school, so why was he here now? Knowing his rigid position on guns, she was certain he hadn’t come to provide support. She couldn’t help wondering if he had gathered Ruth Ann and Norman in order to embarrass her.
The trio slowly edged forward along the left aisle.
An elderly congregant, with gray hair pulled into a bun, stood slowly. “Rabbi,” she asked, gazing through tinted glasses, one lens of which was blacked over, “what will be said of Ohav Shalom when its rabbi totes a deadly rifle and acts like a vigilante in a Western film?”
“Ma yamru ha-goyim?” Gabby answered in Hebrew before translating. “What will the Gentiles say? Well, I don’t rightly know. I suppose some will find it politically incorrect, but others, quite natural. How our Gentile neighbors will view me trying to break up a gunfight is anybody’s guess.”
Dov Shellenberg, resplendent in a navy-blue blazer and Brooks Brothers tie, still stood off to the left. She’d expected him to join her at the front table, but he’d kept his distance. When the debate temporarily lost its focus, he lifted his arm to solicit attention. “The issue is not the propriety of guns in our society,” he said, preparing to crystallize the thoughts of others. “The burning question at hand is what should Ohav Shalom do? A national consensus is composed of thousands of institutions taking a position. If we remain silent, the opposition wins by default. And we know, only too well, how the NRA has beaten down our legislation in Congress. The NRA wins because it’s disciplined and relentless. Anti-gun people, like us, are wimps. For too long we have stood patiently on the sidelines, watching the slaughter on American streets and praying the nation will awaken from its slumber. It won’t. Of that I can assure you.”
Dov’s mode of expression, the “This is not X, but Y, and you must understand that…” that characterized much of Washington discourse, irritated Gabby. What he had just said sounded to her like political double-talk. Perhaps Joel Fox got it right? At least he was doing more than standing on the sidelines making pious speeches.
“Rabbi Shellenberg has a point,” said Henry Zug, a recent confirmation class graduate who wore his kinky black hair in a tight ponytail. “We can write petitions. We can draft language for a resolution to put before the board of directors. What do you think, Rabbi?” He avoided Dov Shellenberg and trained his eyes on Gabby.
The issue was more explosive than Henry Zug appreciated and Gabby’s political sensibilities inclined her towards caution. “Well, Henry, you’ve got a good point. But forcing a resolution upon the congregation might be unnecessarily divisive. What do you think would be gained by dividing people into warring camps? Will a general statement of principle from Ohav Shalom change federal or state law? Will it redeem or prevent a single death on the streets? Or give us back Bart?”
Zug looked around for support and found little. “I’m not sure,” he admitted.
A widower, who faithfully attended services every Sabbath, filled the moment of hesitation. “Many of the demonstrators gave their renditions of what happened at Izaak Walton and, according to the article, shots were fired. But there seems to be a difference of opinion about how many. Did you fire any shots, Rabbi?”
“No, I didn’t. I believe only one round was fired at the clubhouse, though I was so nervous that I could be mistaken. Stopping the youngsters from congregating between the protestors and armed club members was the only thing I could think of. The mood was nasty and deteriorating. I knew the club members wanted to teach the trespassers a lesson. The kids, who seemed to me to be enjoying Dr. Fox’s program, didn’t want their club disbanded. I heard, with my own ears, Dr. Fox invite the demonstrators to visit the club as guests. He wanted them to observe his gun safety classes. But his invitation was rejected.”
“And you never fired a shot at the range?” the widower pursued, like a prosecutor examining his witness.
“No, I didn’t. Wait, that’s not entirely correct. I did fire a single shot on the firing range. But that was well before the conflict. After a class in the clubhouse, the instructors took the kids to the range to shoot small caliber rifles. I was invited to try my luck and missed the target altogether. I certainly never fired a bullet in anger. It might surprise you to learn that the gun I had in the picture was a civil war relic. To shoot it, I’m told, you must stuff powder and a ball down the barrel, and I certainly don’t know how to do that. Since gun enthusiasts make a point of keeping their weapons unloaded, I seriously doubt it was ready to fire, even if I’d had the inclination to shoot—which, I assure you, I didn’t. Nor did I aim it at anybody.”
While Gabby knew she was not actually obliged to answer any additional questions, she wanted to satisfy her congregants. The coffee and bagel hour normally ended in time for parents to collect their children from the school, but this time, most of the participants stayed after to continue the discussion. Half an hour later, she declared the conversation temporarily ended to prevent the last eight individuals from arguing all afternoon.
She found her study a quiet refuge. Dark rosewood paneling and bookshelves of cherished volumes flanked the walls, while a thick Berber carpet covered the floor. Except for an occasional noise from Chuck Browner’s office outside, little sound penetrated a silence so pervading she often felt she heard it buzz. As she sat at her desk, she scanned The Weekly Announcements, a photocopied list of upcoming congregational events that she referred to several times a day, since forgetting a ceremony or appointment could be disastrous. So far that had never happened, but she lived in fear of the possibility. The Klein Bat-Mitvah was scheduled for the coming Sabbath and she noticed the obituary of a congregant’s father, who had died in North Carolina. A condolence letter was in order. A birth notice captured her attention. Born on January 27th, Alan Jonathan Zentner to Noah and Morgan Zentner. Brit milah at the Zentner home, February 19th. Rabbi Dov Shellenberg officiating.
It was no surprise, yet seeing it in print released suppressed feelings. Morgan and Noah had moved into a new phase of their marriage. She was happy for them both, but was, for a moment, touched by sadness. It was as if she stood stationary, while the world around her moved forward. The closeness she’d shared with Noah was now completely a memory; they might remain friends, but it would the distant friendship appropriate between a rabbi and her congregant. And that, she thought to herself, is how it should be. She sighed to release any lingering regrets.
She was packing a briefcase when Dov Shellenberg knocked and then immediately let himself in. “I dropped by to see how you’re feeling. Everything okay?” he asked, his voice more chipper than she would have expected.
It was a particularly bad moment. Her eyes were moist and there was a small, almost indistinguishable tremor in her hand. “If you want to know the truth, Dov, I feel wretched. None of those people were there at the rifle range, but most of them were immediately willing to accept the worst interpretation of the event.”
; “Sorry to hear that,” he said, using a phrase she had heard from him often.
She moved around her desk and leaned back against the outer edge. “Are you really? When I needed support, I didn’t hear any from you. Your assistance would have been appreciated.”
“You know I don’t agree with you about guns, Gabby. How can you expect me to voice support for something I don’t believe in? We’re at bedrock here. On guns there can be absolutely no compromise.”
“That depends how you carve out the problem, Dov. You might not like teaching gun safety, but you might have supported me for preventing an old-fashioned gunfight. The mood in Seneca was sour. The youngsters could have been mowed down like stalks in a cornfield. Some people might consider what I did a pretty neat little piece of work. Some might like to plant a medal of valor on me. But you, apparently, won’t consider it. Okay, I say to myself, he’s got his opinion and I’ve got mine. Nevertheless, I still believe you have a professional responsibility to protect a colleague under fire. Instead, I got the impression you enjoyed seeing me squirm.”
Dov lifted his chin as if accepting an opponent’s blow. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
His canned cliché annoyed Gabby. “And while we’re on the subject of our differences, let’s talk about a difference in professional style. I know you’re scheduled to perform a brit milah ceremony for the Zentner family. How did that come about?”
His lips twitched in discomfort before he spoke. “Morgan Zentner telephoned three weeks ago,” he said. “She learned that she was having a boy and wanted to alert me in advance. It’s as simple as that.”
“Is it, really? I doubt it. I’ve watched you cultivate the Zentner family. Just as well, I told myself. It might have been awkward for me to serve as their rabbi. I said nothing, which I suppose could be interpreted as a green light. In return, I would have expected from you the courtesy of keeping me informed. Until Bart Skulkin’s funeral, I wasn’t aware that Morgan was pregnant.”
