Wednesday the Rabbi Got Wet

by Harry Kemelman

  The others had similarly prepared themselves and were sitting in the middle of the room talking, mostly about Hurricane Betsy, which weather forecasters had been tracking for the last several days and which still might strike the Boston area. Irving Hovik, something of an amateur meteorologist, was explaining with wide gestures that “… she can still turn in. She gains strength over the water and loses it over the land. So if she turns in and hits us head on, it can be bad, but if she hits south of here and then moves up the coast, she’ll lose a lot of her power, see? It depends on how much spin she’s got.”

  Over to the side, at the end of the aisle and away from the rest, the rabbi noticed a tall young man whom he had not previously seen at the services. His blond hair was long and he had a heavy beard. He wore a blue denim jacket and blue jeans stuffed into leather boots. Instead of a narrow silk prayer shawl such as the others wore, he had a long woollen one that came down to his knees.

  Just as the rabbi was about to welcome him, the young man grasped the edge of his woollen prayer shawl in either hand and, raising his arms, he crossed his hands in front of his face, thereby enclosing himself in a cylinder of cloth. It reminded the rabbi of his grandfather, who had been an Orthodox rabbi; just so, he used to momentarily shut out the world to organize his mind for prayer and communion with God. As he watched, the cylinder of white began to gyrate slowly from side to side in a kind of ecstasy. It crossed his mind—with a touch of regret? of annoyance?—that over the years his own recital of the blessings accompanying the putting on of the phylacteries and the prayer shawl had become more or less perfunctory.

  Chester Kaplan, a short man of fifty with a round head and smiley face, came hurrying in. He shed his jacket on one of the back benches and rolled up his left shirtsleeve. “We got ten?” he asked.

  “Yeah, now. You’re the tenth. Let’s get cracking.”

  “Jeez, Chet, you know some of us poor slobs got jobs to go to.”

  “I know, I know. I had trouble getting my car started.” He began to put on his phylacteries.

  The young man lowered his prayer shawl and draped it once again about his shoulders. The rabbi came over and said, “I am Rabbi Small.”

  The young man nodded and smiled. “Yes, I know.” He took the proffered hand and said, “I’m Akiva Rokeach.”

  “Are you new in town, Mr. Rokeach?”

  “I’m visiting for a few days.”

  “Well, we’re happy to have you.” He looked about and smiled. “Without you, I guess we would not have had a minyan this morning.” Then he offered the traditional courtesy to the stranger. “Would you care to lead the prayers?”

  Rokeach blushed. “No, I better not.”

  Courtesy also forbade pressing anyone who refused, so the rabbi called out, “You want to lead, Chester?”

  “Okay,” and Chester Kaplan took his place at the reading desk in front of the Ark. Throughout the service that followed, although the greater portion was murmured in undertones, the rabbi was able to hear his neighbor reciting the prayers, and he quickly understood that the reason the young man had refused his offer to lead was that his Hebrew was uncertain.

  Since it was Wednesday and hence not one of the days on which the Scroll was read, the service was soon over. As the men removed their phylacteries and rolled up the straps, they resumed the conversations the service had interrupted.

  Chester Kaplan came bustling up to the rabbi. Confidently tucking his hand under the rabbi’s elbow, he whispered in his ear, “Got something I want to ask you.”

  The rabbi let himself be led to the door and then to the parking lot beyond, although he expected no important request or significant revelation. By temperament Chester Kaplan was given to intrigue and its outward manifestations: the confidential whisper, the knowing nod and wink, the little grimace invoking silence at the approach of a third person. Now at the rabbi’s car and safely out of earshot of eavesdroppers, he asked, “Have you thought any more about that business we discussed at the last board meeting, Rabbi?”

  “You mean about the retreat? Well, I haven’t changed my mind about it.”

  Kaplan pursed his lips in momentary annoyance. Then he smiled, a bright friendly smile, his eyes crinkling with good humor. “You made the point that the temple couldn’t afford it,” he said. “All right, you’ve convinced me.” He looked at the rabbi, his eyes wide with candor. “I thought originally, if we put on a big drive, we could raise the money. But after inquiring around a little, I decided you were right and that it would be a tough proposition to promote.” He smiled and gave a little nod of the head to indicate that he was man enough to admit when he was wrong.

  “Well—”

  Kaplan clutched the rabbi’s arm. “But what if the money was no problem? What if I were to tell you that there is a chance of getting the property without it costing the temple or the membership one red cent?”

  The rabbi smiled. “The difficulty in raising the money was just one of my objections. I’d still be against it.”

  “But why, Rabbi? Why?” His tone registered puzzled hurt.

  “Because it smacks of Christianity rather than Judaism,” said the rabbi promptly. “It suggests convents and monasteries, an ivory-tower attitude. Retreat—the word itself suggests retiring from life and the world. That’s not Judaic. We participate.”

  “But prayer and meditation, Rabbi, they’re part and parcel of our religious tradition.”

  “Sure, and that’s what the temple is for. If you want to pray and meditate, why can’t you do it at the temple or in your own home for that matter? Why do you have to run off to the country?”

  “We don’t have to, but—”

  “Is it because some other temples and synagogues have gone in for it? Or is it because you’d like to have something positive, something material, that you can point to as an accomplishment of your administration?”

  “Naturally, I’d like to make a major contribution to the development of the temple,” Kaplan said stiffly.

  “Well, you already have.”

  “I have?”

  “Certainly. You’re the first president we’ve had since Jacob Wasserman who is an observant Jew. That’s a major contribution in itself.”

  Kaplan nodded thoughtfully. “Don’t think it’s a fluke, Rabbi. There’s a new spirit around. I was elected because I am an observant, religious Jew. I might point out that a number of my friends, people who think as I do, were also elected to the board of directors. Why? Because there’s a yearning for religion. And not just going through the motions. There’s a religious renaissance, and I can feel it. And it’s why I was elected.”

  “Well …” The rabbi smiled deprecatingly. He did not think it politic to mention Tizzik’s explanation, or even his own.

  “The young fellow who was sitting next to you, the guy with the beard, did you notice how he davened? With what fervor and intensity? It’s a sign of the times. Who was he, by the way?”

  “I don’t know. A stranger visiting in the neighborhood. His name is Rokeach, Akiva Rokeach.”

  “There he is now.” Kaplan nodded toward the far end of the parking lot where Rokeach was climbing into a low-slung sports car. They watched as he raced his motor and then set the car in motion to make a wide sweep toward them. He braked the car momentarily to wave to the rabbi. “I guess you don’t remember me, Rabbi,” he called out.

  “Should I? Do I know you?” the rabbi asked. But evidently the young man did not hear over the throb of the engine, because he laughed and sped away.

  “He must know you,” said Kaplan.

  “No one I remember, unless he was a student at one of the colleges where I’ve talked to Hillel groups. Maybe he asked a question.” He looked at the president curiously. “You think the way he davened, rocking back and forth, is an indication of religious fervor?”

  “What would you call it?”

  The rabbi shrugged. “A style, a mannerism picked up from those who taught him to daven, and that must ha
ve been fairly recently judging from his halting Hebrew.”

  “That’s just the point, Rabbi. That’s exactly what I mean. He’s new at it. He must have got interested in religion just recently. And it means a great deal to him because he’s just visiting, you said, and yet he makes a point of coming to the minyan. He’s not exceptional, believe me. At these Wednesday evening get-togethers I’ve been having at my house, you hear so many similar stories that—”

  “Is that what you do Wednesday nights? Get together and swap testimonials?”

  “We discuss all kinds of things,” said Kaplan stiffly. “Any kind of input is welcome. Why don’t you come some Wednesday night and find out for yourself?”

  “I might at that. Tonight—”

  “Tonight there won’t be much that would interest you,” Kaplan interposed quickly, and then added, “Of course, you’re welcome, but—”

  “I was about to say that I couldn’t make it tonight. I have one of my sick calls. Old Jacob Kestler—I promised to come and sit with him for a while.”

  “How about next Wednesday? Mark it in your calendar. Or any Wednesday you’re free.”

  “All right, I will.”

  4

  At precisely seven o’clock Wednesday morning, as on every other day of the year, Marcus Aptaker, the proprietor of Town-Line Drugs, came down to breakfast. He was a methodical, systematic man and the things he had to do regularly he did automatically. Freshly shaved, rimless eyeglasses gleaming, his thin brownish-blond hair was plastered down as though painted on. He was neatly dressed in his blue suit—the blue for Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays; the gray for Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. On Sundays, because the store was open only half a day and it was therefore a half holiday, he dressed in slacks and a sweater. To be sure, when he got to the store, he would hang up his jacket and put on a cotton store jacket, but it was as a doctor might put on a lab coat to make hospital rounds. The important thing was to be properly dressed going to and coming from the store, because as a professional man attention to dress was a responsibility he owed to his position.

  He was seated at the dining room table when his wife Rose entered a few minutes later. She was still in her bathrobe, her hair pulled back from a round pleasant face and hanging down her back in a loose braid. She served him his breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice, eggs, bacon and toast. With a nod at the other place setting on the table he said pleasantly, “I suppose Arnold will be sleeping late today.”

  “No, he got up early. He’s already gone,” his wife answered.

  “Gone? Gone where? And without breakfast?”

  “He said he’d be back for it. He went to the temple for the morning service. He said you were supposed to pray first and then eat.”

  “Is this some special holiday? I hadn’t heard anything about it.”

  “No, it’s just the daily service. They hold it in the morning and in the evening. When my mother died, my father went for a whole year, every morning and every evening.”

  “Ridiculous,” he said and drained his orange juice.

  She had brought a cup of coffee for herself and sipped at it while he ate. “What harm does it do?” she asked reasonably. “A boy living alone? Better he should be interested in religion than in some of the things young people are involved in these days.”

  “Did you talk to him after I went to bed? Did he say anything about his plans?” Marcus asked hesitantly.

  “Just that he had to get back to Philadelphia by Monday. He just had the week off.”

  “I mean his plans in general. Did you talk to him about the store? Did you tell him about Safferstein?”

  “I told him we had a buyer for the store and that you said you wouldn’t sell unless you knew definitely that your son would not take it over.”

  “And what did he say?” he asked eagerly.

  “He said you should go ahead and sell. You could retire and we could travel or go to Florida or—”

  “And then what would I do?” he demanded. “So I travel for a while, for six months, even a year? Then what? I’m sixty-two years old and I’m in good health. What do I do after I’ve traveled? Sit around and wait to die?”

  “But if he’s just not interested …”

  “He’s got to be interested,” Aptaker insisted, his voice rising. “I put almost forty years into that store, and my father fifteen years before that. It’s a family enterprise. Do you just walk away from something you’ve worked at all your life and your father before you? It’s not just a way of making a living. It’s something we’ve built over the years.”

  “Yes, and you work sixty or seventy hours a week there. Why should a young boy like Arnold be interested when he has a good job where he works forty hours a week and doesn’t have the headache and the responsibility?”

  “But working for wages! If he has his own business—”

  “So in time maybe he’ll get his own store. Why should he tie himself up with this one that’s been going downhill—”

  “It’s not going downhill,” he shouted and banged on the table with his fist for additional emphasis. “We netted more this year than last year.”

  “A few hundred more.”

  “All right, so a few hundred more. But a young man could build it up—”

  “It’s the location, Marcus.” She shook her head sadly. “You can’t build up a location. You can fancy up the store, put in a new front, some new fixtures, but if the location is going down, it won’t help.”

  “Locations change. If that high-rise for senior citizens goes through, it will be an A-one location for a drugstore again. If the location is so bad, why does a smart real estate man like Safferstein want to buy it?”

  “Like he said, for his brother-in-law. I can imagine what the situation is. His wife has a brother whom he has to help support. So he figures he’ll set him up in his own store and get him off his back. But for a young man like Arnold—”

  “I tell you he could do well here,” Aptaker insisted. “I’d make it easy for him to take over. I’d take back notes and he wouldn’t have to worry about paying them on time. And I’d come in a few hours a day to help him, not for regular pay but just for expense money.”

  “So talk to him. Tell him what you have in mind.”

  Aptaker’s shoulders drooped in despair. “I can’t talk to him. It’s like we don’t talk the same language.”

  “What do you expect? If you talked to him like you talk to anybody else, like you talk to a customer or to McLane, quietly, reasonably—”

  “I can’t talk to him like to McLane,” he exploded. “He’s not just another pharmacist applying for a job. I can’t sit down and discuss wages and working hours with him. He’s my son. He should feel that the store is his, that I’m just holding it for him until he can get around to taking it over like I took over from my father.”

  “But how can he understand how you feel unless you tell him?”

  “I shouldn’t have to tell him. He should feel it himself. If you have to tell him, then right away, it’s no good.”

  Rose Aptaker sighed. “Go to the store already, please. Arnold should be coming home soon, and the way you’re feeling now, I don’t think it’s a good idea you should be here.”

  “So I have to hide from my own son?”

  “You don’t have to hide, but sometimes it’s a good idea if—I don’t know, lately you’re so irritable. Go to the store, please, and I’ll talk to him again.”

  5

  “Say, Miriam, do we know anyone named Rokeach?” the rabbi asked his wife when he got home. “Akiva Rokeach? Do you recall my ever mentioning the name?”

  She was small, with the trim figure of a young girl. She had wide blue eyes and an open frank face that would have appeared naive were it not for the firm determined chin. The mass of blond hair piled on top of her head threatened to come tumbling down about her neck and shoulders as she shook her head in vigorous denial. “A name like that I’d be sure to remember. It sounds like
an Israeli name.”

  “He’s certainly not Israeli. His Hebrew is bad and his English has no trace of accent.” He told her about the incident at the temple.

  “He doesn’t have to be a sabra,” Miriam pointed out. “He could have emigrated, you know, and come back for a short visit. A lot of them take Israeli names. Or they translate their names into Hebrew. Does Rokeach mean anything in Hebrew?”

  “Why yes. It means druggist, an apothecary.”

  “An apothecary? How about Aptaker? That means apothecary too, doesn’t it?”

  “In Russian, I believe. I wonder—”

  “The proprietor of Town-Line Drugs is a Mr. Aptaker. Could it be his son?”

  “You know, Miriam, I think you’re right. Remember a few years back—”

  “Of course. Jonathan got that terrible attack in the middle of the night and you called the doctor—”

  “And he called Mr. Aptaker at his home, and his son opened the store and got the medicine and delivered it.” He screwed his eyes shut in an effort to recall young Aptaker’s appearance. “He had no beard, of course, and his hair was cut short. It could be.”

  “I didn’t see him.” Miriam smiled ruefully. “I was with Jonathan. He wouldn’t let me out of his sight.”