Kagan shot; leaping into the air, flying diagonally toward the corner, he turned to face the basket and lifted the ball high over his head for his weird, unorthodox two-hand jumpshot. Sailing tangentially away from the basket, Kagan released a desperation shot that, although possessing little chance of going through the basket, was well-nigh unblockable.
As Kagan descended slowly toward the floor, with wildly increasing excitement he watched the ball rise high in a perfect arc toward the basket. Bursting with anticipation, he stopped breathing when he realized the arc of the improbable shot was going to lead it through the hoop. (Kagan — 101, Celtics — 100!) The shot approached the zenith of its flight. Russell sprang from beneath the basket and flew toward the ball. Zooming into the air with his arms outstretched and held next to one another and his legs and feet similarly extended, he seemed to be a rocket in a Celtic uniform. He moved much faster than humanly possible. As the ball reached the peak of its journey, Russell’s great strong hands clutched it into their inescapable grasp. The clock reached zero, the gun went off, and a great strangulated groan echoed from gasping throats.
Kagan, numb from Russell’s defensive genius, stood in the corner of the court and watched the jubilant Celtics run in enthusiastic adolescent bounds toward their bench. Kagan felt an arm on his shoulder. The mikveh man was looking up at him sympathetically.
“It’s not your fault, Kagan. Russell played like an angel.”
Kagan glanced back to see Russell, palming the victory ball like a baseball in his huge hand and his great gap-toothed smile creasing his sweaty, triumphant face, approach the Celtic bench. His teammates hugged him, then respectfully stepped back to make room for the short coaching wizard of the Celtics to step forward and congratulate the great center. But stepping forward to celebrate with Bill Russell was not the fiery Red Auerbach, smoking his victory cigar, but a small wisp of a man.
Kagan sat up in bed and opened his eyes in wide disbelief. “Chaim Der Nechtiger!” Kagan called out incredulously.
Kagan stared about the unfamiliar room.
“Chaim Der Nechtiger?” Kagan repeated. Big Abe, the old man in the rumpled green suit, I might have expected to see them in my dream as coach of the Celtics, but Chaim From Yesterday? What does Chaim From Yesterday have to do with anything? “Chaim Der Nechtiger!”
“Fran, you have to listen to a dream. It’s crazy. It....”
Kagan turned to find the bed empty.
“Hey, Fran, are you in the bathroom?” he called.
When he received no reply, he began to have vague recollections of having heard her earlier in the morning. Kagan fumbled around the night table for his watch.
“Ten-thirty,” he gasped, “I’ll miss the whole davening.”
Kagan jumped out of bed and began dressing. In the midst of tucking his shirt into his pants, he opened the apartment door. Already wearing his suitcoat, he thrust his coattails into his pants along with his shirttails. Fran always told me this never saves time.
The cat meowed plaintively from the dining room.
“A rachmones on the cat,” said Kagan.
He dashed into the bathroom, filled the cat’s water bowl, and ran back to the open door. In the doorway he struggled ferociously to free his suitcoat from his pants. His hand already on the doorknob, Kagan looked back into the empty apartment. “Chaim Der Nechtiger?” Kagan repeated. He quickly closed the door and ran down the hall toward the staircase. Gevalt, late for shul on Yom Kippur!
8
RUSHING down the few short blocks on West End, Kagan didn’t see one Jew. I’m probably the only Jew in Manhattan who’s not in shul, Kagan mourned. Wait a minute, thought Kagan. What about Big Abe and Pakooz? I guess I’m the only Jew in Manhattan who should be in shul and isn’t. That’s not quite right either. Shouldn’t they be in shul, too? They aren’t even going to shul, Kagan mourned. “But I sure as hell am late!” Kagan shouted definitively.
Kagan sprinted down Ninety-first Street, barely nodding to the old chimp who didn’t seem to realize that Kagan was decidedly late for shul.
AS he entered the shtibl, Kagan heard a buzz, no, a roar of voices. Everyone was talking; no one was praying. Kagan rapidly worked his way through the crowded, narrow hallway to discover the reason for the tumultuous recess. At the reading desk stood old Mr. Isaacson auctioning off the aliyahs, the honors of being called to the Torah. Except for the few bidding, no one else could care less.
“Fuftzik dollars, shishi,” the old man chanted in singsong.
“Fifty dollars, shishi! Fifty dollars, shishi! Fifty dollars, shishi!”
As he quoted the highest bid, Mr. Isaacson scanned the congregation, hoping either to discover or to inspire a higher one.
“Fuftzik dollars, shishi. First time.... Second time.... Third time.... Sold, shishi!”
The old man’s hand smacked the reading table signaling the finality of the bargain.
Gevalt, thought Kagan, am I late! I missed all of shachris.
Kagan began threading his way toward the small room. People wished him a gut yontiff and he returned the greeting. Kagan entered, but before he could speak, revealing his embarrassment, Benny greeted him.
“Well, I knew the smart money would arrive in time to bid on Maftir Yonah. I guess Kagan wanted to give the little fish a chance with the small stuff.”
“If I had your money, Benny, I’d buy Maftir Yonah and I wouldn’t complain about the price.”
“And if I had your money, Kagan, I’d get to shul on time Yom Kippur. It doesn’t cost any more to say all the prayers.”
Benny’s tone, not as hostile as it might seem, reflected their outrageous honesty with one another.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Kagan admitted. “I overslept.”
“You overslept on Yom Kippur?” Benny laughed, not one not to press an advantage.
Benny’s idea of mercy, Kagan thought, is to ask someone if he wants to be roasted over red-hot or white-hot coals. What the hell does he know? I might have been in jail right now. I’m lucky to be here at all.
“At least I made it in time to give the Priestly Blessing,” Kagan responded lamely.
“For that you could have slept until five this afternoon,” Benny observed.
Danny laughed at his father’s remark.
A punk like you wants to be a doctor, yet, Kagan thought.
“What are you talking about?” Kagan asked. “We give the Priestly Blessing at the end of musaf, no?”
“Not on Shabbes, Mack. When Yom Kippur is on Shabbes, we bless the congregation at neilah, right before the end of the fast.”
“No kidding?” said Kagan with delight. He disliked surprises, but he loved information. “We wait to the very end of Yom Kippur, huh? Why do we do it that way?”
“Got me,” said Benny, “that’s the custom here. If nothing else, it makes you rather early,” Benny said.
“Gevalt, am I late!” mourned Kagan.
“Don’t feel bad, Kagan,” Schwartz falsely consoled him. “You didn’t miss much, just shachris. Today we have shachris, musaf, minchah, and neilah. You can still hit three out of four. It’s not the superfecta, but it’s better than Ty Cobb.”
Kagan never heard about Ty Cobb. In his embarrassment over his late arrival, he had forgotten about everything that had happened to him, even the cause of his tardiness. Kagan jumped up maniacally and turned toward the curtain for the old man in the rumpled green suit, but his seat was empty. Maybe he had switched seats. Kagan scanned the small congregation. Even the women’s section — you never know. But he was nowhere.
“Where is he?” Kagan cried.
“Ty Cobb died a few years ago, but if he means so much to you, wait a few minutes and you can say Yizkor for him,” said Schwartz.
Everyone in the little room laughed except Kagan, who spun back towards Schwartz.
“The old guy who borrowed your machzor last night. The guy in that crazy green suit!”
Kagan’s anguish took Schwartz aback.
“I don’t know, Moe. He hasn’t arrived yet.”
“No one’s seen him?”
Everyone shook his head.
“You sound like a guy who’s having a nightmare,” Benny said, a hint of concern entering his voice.
“I am, Benny. Don’t you ever have them?” Kagan asked defensively.
“Yes, but generally at night,” Benny answered honestly.
Kagan regained his composure. “You’re lucky.”
“Is there anything we can do for you?” Benny asked matter-of-factly, but sincerely.
“No, I’ll be all right. I have to find someone. Some things are bothering me. That’s all. Thanks, though.”
Benny nodded.
The rabbi began klopping on the reading desk for quiet. It was time to read the Torah. People moved back to their seats and opened their books to follow the Torah reading.
Kagan, still standing, donned a tallis and began leafing through the fat Yom Kippur prayer book. It was enormous. The morning prayer, shachris, which he had slept through, was well over a hundred pages. As he watched the unprayed pages tumble by, he felt overwhelmed.
“Where shall I start?” Kagan wondered aloud in distress.
“Start from the Torah reading. That’s what Yom Kippur is all about.”
“It is?” replied Kagan, accustomed to hearing voices.
“Yes,” the voice answered.
Kagan turned to find that he was conversing with Bienstock, who was coming back from the women’s section, where he had been speaking to his wife.
“Read it. You’ll see.”
“Say, listen,” said Kagan, sounding like his old self for the first time since he woke up. “Why do we give the Priestly Blessing by neilah at the end of the day when Yom Kippur falls on Shabbes?”
“Because it’s our custom.”
“But what does that mean?” Kagan pressed.
“That means that that’s the way we do it. I don’t know the reason for it. Ask Isaacson. He helped found the place, maybe he knows.”
“I’d better,” said Kagan.
Isaacson sat studying the Torah reading for Yom Kippur. Kagan leaned over to get his attention. As soon as Mr. Isaacson saw him, he smiled and reached to take Kagan’s right hand in both of his.
“Gut yontiff,” Isaacson said.
What a warm wonderful handshake, thought Kagan. “Gut yontiff, gut Shabbes,” he responded.
“How are you feeling, Moe? When I didn’t see you, I was worried you might be sick.”
Unlike those others. But they were right, Kagan grudgingly admitted. “No, I’m fine. I overslept.”
“Good, good,” Mr. Isaacson said, squeezing Kagan’s hand, expressing his pleasure that Kagan was not sick.
“Mr. Isaacson, since today is Shabbes and Yom Kippur, we give the Priestly Blessing today only by neilah?”
“That’s right, Moe.”
“Why, Mr. Isaacson?”
“Because it’s our minhag, our custom.”
“Because it’s the right thing to do?” Kagan pressed.
“No, because it’s our custom,” Mr. Isaacson answered innocently.
“Well, why is it our custom?” Kagan pleaded.
“Because it’s the right thing to do!” Mr. Isaacson answered adamantly.
They were beginning to read the Torah. Whispering “Shh,” Mr. Isaacson released Kagan’s hand. Kagan, smiling to himself, returned to his seat.
“What’d he say?” Benny asked.
“Some things be’s that way,” Kagan quoted his students.
“Isaacson reads Rumanian below grade level?” Schwartz remarked.
“Yeah,” Kagan laughed. “That guy ought to write me a routine on Rumania. There’s a routine there someplace.”
Kagan opened his machzor to the exact page and wondered what the odds against that were. Although the reading had already begun, Kagan in distraction turned towards the old man’s seat by the curtain. Empty, but no horses either, thank God. Kagan turned back, but before he looked inside his book, he sat listening to the reader’s plaintive penitential chant. The whining tones were strangely soulful and uplifting, devoid of the undignified kvetching one might have expected from plaintive cries. Yet the sound of supplicating anguish made Kagan resonate uncomfortably to its melodic pain. To remove its keen edge, he drifted inside his book to concentrate on the quiet printed word.
Usually Kagan followed the Hebrew even though he didn’t understand it. (If God wants to hear it, it’s good enough for me. I’m sure he understands it, aren’t you?) But today was not the usual Yom Kippur. God knew what was happening but Kagan didn’t. Distressed by his ignorance, Kagan decided to read the English translation.
Everybody loves Leviticus some of the time, Kagan sang to himself when he noticed the source of the reading.
Kagan began to read about the death of Aaron’s two sons. They had stepped where they shouldn’t have in the Tabernacle. Now that’s a pretty tough out-of-bounds play, joked Kagan.
“Hey, Benny,” Kagan whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. “You read this stuff? Aaron’s boys would have been better off in the National Basketball Association. There you get two technicals before they throw you out.”
“Yeah,” Benny agreed, “that was a pretty tough place to work with those shop rules.”
“Now maybe you guys’ll have a little respect for us cohens when you see what we used to do,” Kagan said in a normal speaking voice.
From the main room came shushing voices and disapproving looks.
“Kagan, at least they got there on time. And I guarantee you that they didn’t clock out early. As for Benny, the High Priest had to believe in some of the Torah,” Schwartz whispered.
“Well,” said Benny, “they probably didn’t have my size in those priestly linen outfits, anyway. But you never know who’s cut out for what unless you give him a chance.”
“Sometimes people rise to the occasion like Harry Truman and Mr. Isaacson,” Kagan said seriously.
Everyone in the small room laughed.
“You think he likes shlepping money out of people to buy aliyahs?” Kagan asked rhetorically. “It’s not his thing, but the shul needs money. So do I,” Kagan added with self-pity.
“Yeah, Kagan, some High Priest you would have been,” Schwartz said. “Had you been there, Titus never would have gotten his hands on those holy golden vessels. You would have pawned them long before. The Holy of Holies would have been papered with hockshop tickets.”
Even Kagan laughed. “It’s probably true,” he admitted.
“But, Moe, you would have been great at the holy lottery,” Schwartz added.
“Can you imagine?” Benny laughed, “all the side action Moe would have had going? All of Israel would have shown up to get the results.”
What the hell are they talking about? Wondered Kagan. Before he got a chance to ask, the rabbi started pounding the reading desk and calling “Nu?” in his most anguished voice.
The group thought it prudent not to continue their conversation for the time being.
Wondering what lottery they were talking about, Kagan returned to the text. On Yom Kippur, the High Priest wears linen garments instead of gold and starts with the sacrifices. I don’t know about Benny, Kagan thought, but I don’t think I’m cut out for this job. It’s not my thing to go running around slaughtering animals. What would Yvette think? There must be a routine there someplace. Kagan read on. Oh, yeah, the two he-goats. Kagan had an idea what they had been talking about.
Kagan leaned forward to whisper to Danny and his friend.
“You boys can see what a male-chauvinist thing the Temple was. It says two he-goats. Now with women’s lib, it would have to be a he- and a she-goat.”
The boys laughed.
“Or with gay lib,” Kagan continued, “you could get by with just one, a he-she goat.”
They laughed but Danny shook his head. “It wouldn’t work, Moe. You need two.”
“Oh, you do?” said Kagan so
mewhat defensively, vaguely recalling a lottery but not enough to understand Danny.
Kagan returned to his prayer book. The High Priest brings both goats to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting. Okay, originally Aaron did it, but in later years the High Priest in the Temple cast lots upon the goats. Kagan felt a throbbing in his temples. Action! In the Temple, with the High Priest. Aaron himself ran the game! On Yom Kippur! It was awesome, fearful, and amazing. Kagan was horrified: gambling — a lottery no less! Kagan was astonished: why is that there? Kagan was delighted: that’s my boy! Kagan was fearful: five — seven — three — four! And Kagan was curious! With the throbbing in his temples, he was drawn to the other Temple. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, and held the machzor in front of his face as if he were going to devour it.
Kagan read intently and well above grade level to find out all that he could about the action in the Temple on Yom Kippur. With burning curiosity, he discovered that the High Priest drew lots on the two goats. One lot was “for the Lord” and the other was “for Azazel.” The High Priest then offered the Lord’s goat, sacrificing it in the Temple and sprinkling its blood as an atonement for the Holy Sanctuary because of the impurities. But the goat “for Azazel” was altogether different. The High Priest placed his hands upon its head and confessed all the sins of Israel, then sent it to the desert “carrying all of the people’s sins.” In the wilderness it got shoved over a cliff.
My god, Kagan realized in astonishment, that goat, the one for Azazel, atones for all of Israel. Kagan’s head ached. Gambling decides the most important event of Yom Kippur!
“Benny, what do you make out of the lottery with the goats?” Kagan inquired earnestly. And then with a rush of consternation, he importuned, “What’s going on?”
Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories Page 11
