Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories

by Allen Hoffman

  Benny looked up soberly. “Mack,” he said, “I can’t make heads or tails out of that mumbo-jumbo. That’s what God wants; that’s what we do. How that little goat can drag off everybody’s sins beats me. Hell, just carrying my sins it could get a hernia.”

  In spite of his joke, Kagan appreciated Benny’s gravity. Benny addressed all of his serious theological statements to “Mack,” no matter to whom he was speaking, including the rabbi. Kagan joked that Benny’s blessings began, “Blessed art Thou O Mack, King of the Universe.”

  But at the moment Kagan wasn’t searching for friendship or fellowship. He was searching for understanding.

  Mumbling “Excuse me,” Kagan promptly crawled over half a dozen people to Bienstock.

  “Bienstock, what’s it all about?”

  Bienstock, following the Torah reading, looked up in distraction. He motioned with his hand for Kagan to wait a few moments until the reader reached the end of a section.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The problem, Bienstock, is how the goats work,” Kagan demanded.

  “Kagan, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the two he-goats the High Priest draws in the lottery. You said that’s what Yom Kippur is all about.”

  “Yes,” Bienstock nodded. “The one for Azazel atones for all of Israel’s sins, that’s right.”

  “But how does it work?” Kagan insisted.

  “It’s very involved but it’s all in the Talmud. They bring two white goats before the High Priest, one on his right side and one on his left. Then they bring him the box containing the two ballots; on one is written ‘the Lord,’ on the other ‘Azazel.’ He reaches inside with both hands, simultaneously grabs a ballot in each hand, lifts them out together, and the right-hand ballot, whichever it is, belongs to the goat on his right side and the left-hand ballot to the left-side goat. It’s a blind lottery.”

  “Fine, but how does it work?” Kagan repeated adamantly.

  “What do you mean?” Bienstock asked with a tinge of irritation. “I told you that’s how it works.”

  “No,” Kagan insisted, “that’s how they did it, but why did they have to have a lottery to atone for our sins? How does that work?”

  “Because God wanted it that way.”

  “Yeah, but what’s the reason? Why gambling in the Temple on Yom Kippur?”

  “That’s what God wants!” Bienstock repeated.

  “Good, but how does it work?” Kagan responded torturously.

  Bienstock realized that the Torah reader was about to continue with the reading.

  “How should I know how it works?” Bienstock burst out in frustration. “Who cares how it works? It works! That’s what counts!”

  Kagan, equally frustrated, returned to his seat. He kept his book open, but didn’t bother looking inside. He was thinking, but he didn’t know where to begin.

  All right, it works! Good, so it works. But a lottery? Why is a game of chance needed to atone for our sins? It’s not what you would expect Aaron to do on Yom Kippur. And if it is there, it must be there for a reason. Everything is there for a reason. But a lottery? What’s Off-Track Betting doing in the Holy of Holies? It’s not right! It hurts even to see all those bingo games in a church on Saturday night. That’s not right, but the Holy Temple on Yom Kippur!

  Kagan sat and thought, savoring the thrill of self-recognition. Yes, folks, when he performs the ritual slaughter, Kagan closes his eyes out of respect to his pet cat, but when he draws the holy lottery, he’s a genius. We’ve never had a High Priest who felt so at home with what Yom Kippur is all about. Most of the time such a self-indulgent daydream would have been protected, nurtured, developed, explored. But now Kagan couldn’t accept this escape. Something at the very heart of it disturbed him. A game of chance. Why? wondered Kagan. Why? Why? begged Kagan. He knew there had to be a reason but he didn’t feel very sanguine about his chances of discovering it because he knew a mismatch when he saw one. Kagan was about to unleash his middling, muddled mind on a very, very heavy subject. It would be like trying to cut granite with toothpicks. There’s a routine there someplace. Cutting granite with toothpicks! Am I ever happy I don’t have any money on that. That’s not gambling; that’s murder.

  But Kagan couldn’t give up: how could he? The problem was killing him. Kagan concentrated on the High Priest and the two goats. One for the Lord and one for Azazel.

  Kagan focused on the High Priest’s drawing the lots, but that didn’t provide any understanding. He imagined how the ballots felt to the High Priest’s groping fingers in the holy atonement of blindman’s buff. The awkward, blind probing inside the dark box; the strange unexpected sensation of touch that precedes grasping an unseen object. Kagan wondered what the ballots were made out of. How did they feel? Were the Priest’s hands clammy, slick with perspiration? Was the High Priest nervous? Did his hands ever slip from the ballots? What did he think about while he was reaching for the Lord and for Azazel?

  Sensing that his inquiry wasn’t heading in the right direction, Kagan decided to take another tack. What role did chance play in the act of atonement? Kagan was pleased with his formulation of the question. It sounded very academic, almost professorial. You think I smoke a pipe for nothing? Why a lottery? What is the essence of a lottery? Kagan asked. The structure of his inquiry seemed awfully good, but to Kagan’s surprise, it led only into the ballot box. He stopped formulating questions and watched the large, strong, blunt fingers (they seemed not to taper at all) poking sightlessly inside the dark, fateful box. Kagan found himself rooting “C’mon!” as the stiff joints pushed ponderously into one captive corner after another. Although Kagan enjoyed this interior drama, he was aware that his rooting didn’t make much sense. Each of the High Priest’s hands had to seize a ballot. The Lord would get a goat and so would Azazel. Kagan didn’t care where either goat would wind up. Although that was the natural bet, Kagan was fascinated with the priestly act of choosing. The rooting was satisfying so Kagan kept up his “c’mons” and “yeahs,” but not wishing to be too judgmental, he never mentioned the Lord or Azazel.

  The fingers plunged close to the ballots lying lifelessly stiff on the box’s floor. Yeah, c’mon baby, urged Kagan. As the fumbling fingers drew nearer to their fateful prize, another scene descended into Kagan’s consciousness, unrolling like an old yellow tenement shade with a ringlike handle. A shade from the “new building.” In the intruding scene, Kagan saw a small figure skating on thin ice. The scene itself was sketchy but Kagan could tell that the ice was thin from the slow, careful, fearful manner of the skater. The figure carefully slid his skates along the ice so he would not have to lift one and thereby put the entire weight on the other. He moved with his hands slightly extended as if fearful of falling. His back curved with anxiety as he stared down at his impossible path.

  As the High Priest’s fingers stumbled away from the ballots, the shade-skating scene came into view. The scene appeared and faded as the blind fingers approached and drew away from the ballots. Just as the blunt finger bumped the ballot in cautious collision, the shade completely unrolled and Kagan found himself watching the anxious solitary skater circle about on the perilously thin ice. The sharpened image revealed just how thin the ice was. Thinner than the delicate figure-skating blades, the ice bent beneath the skater’s heartbeats. The timid shuffling step pantomimed the uncertain footing and balance of an old person on solid ground. As the skater circled closer, Kagan realized that the figure was, indeed, an old man, and after several more minutes of observing the agonized motion, Kagan recognized the skater on thin ice.

  “Chaim From Yesterday,” he whispered. Then he added in his normal stentorian tones of amazement, “I’ll be damned!”

  “I suppose you will, Kagan,” Schwartz answered, “if you don’t start praying. You have a few more hours until neilah when the gate closes and is locked.”

  “What?” asked Kagan of both himself and Schwartz.

  “Musaf,
we’re davening musaf now. That’s why everyone is standing except you.”

  Kagan looked around. Where have I been? They’ve already said the memorial prayer. Thank God, Mom and Dad are still alive — an image of the old couple davening amid palm trees flitted through his mind — or I would have missed Yizkor for them.

  Kagan resolved to write them more frequently in the coming year and rose to join his fellows. He looked about again. Driven by the wavelike beat of the rocking Jews, the murmur of prayer flowed through the shtibl, filling every corner. The dancing fringes of the prayer shawls rose and fell only to be carried upward again, as if they floated upon the murmuring swells of faith, woolen seagulls coasting a penitential sea with prayer as their wake.

  What a crazy place, thought Kagan affectionately. When I came in a moment ago, everyone was talking and no one was praying. Now no one is talking and everyone is praying. Everyone except for me. He opened his book to pray. His fringes began to rise and fall.

  Kagan concentrated with some success. The Confessional contained fists pounding on hearts, but no hoof-beats. Nevertheless, he glanced over his shoulder to see if the man in the rumpled green suit was near the finish line. Kagan confirmed his absence and continued praying, not with great fervor, but with dedication. Through Kagan’s thoughts glided the fragile figure of Chaim Der Nechtiger, circling perilously above the fine edge of sin — “For the sin we have committed before Thee” (pound) “by desecrating Thy Name.” All in all, not a bad performance when Kagan considered some of the thoughts that often intruded on his prayers. You do your best and let God worry about the rest, mused Kagan.

  Kagan sat down with the others and during the repetition of the musaf prayer made a few desultory attempts to puzzle out the High Priest’s holy lottery. None of these met with much success and Chaim Der Nechtiger intermittently continued his icy shuffle. Kagan tried to get Chaim’s attention to wish him a gut yontiff or just to nod. Kagan was forever seeking out old acquaintances in public places to say hello and rejoice in memory. Fran was forever embarrassed by it. She said that it was pointless, but Kagan relished those chance encounters. By greeting them, Kagan felt he was connecting to other places and other times, and thereby integrating a fragmented world. Perhaps it even suggested some great plan — hence Kagan’s frustration at not catching Chaim From Yesterday’s eye. Kagan couldn’t blame Chaim Der Nechtiger, for the little man was preoccupied with skating on thin ice.

  Had Kagan been able to attract his attention, he would have said, “Chaim Der Nechtiger, shalom aleichem. You know, the old minyan on Second Street. I’m Kagan, a friend of Mr. Stein’s son, Louie.” If the old man’s face did not light up with a smile of recognition and a hint of satisfaction (old people love being remembered), Kagan would have continued, “You remember Mr. Stein. He bought the chometz before Pesach.” No doubt that would have done the trick, but Kagan wouldn’t want to add that last part unless he had to. That was how the old man had gotten his name. It was never very clear to Kagan whether Chaim From Yesterday was very fond of it. Everyone called him that and he didn’t seem to mind. Still, he never seemed to be terribly fond of it either. He bore it as one more burden along with his age and inability to get anywhere on time. Kagan, along with everyone else, had called him Chaim Der Nechtiger. What else could I have called him? That was his name ever since he appeared at the Steins’ door.

  Mr. Stein used to handle the sale of chometz before Passover. Like Louie he was a rabbi and knew how to take care of that stuff. The week before Passover, after the evening prayer in shul, Mr. Stein would stick around to buy any non-Passover food — mainly liquor — that anyone wanted to keep in his house over the holiday. Right before Passover, he would write up a formal contract and sell all the forbidden food to the Italian janitor of the “new building.” With fascination, Kagan would watch the elaborate contractual ritual for the apparently fictional sale among the various parties, all poor.

  Everyone who wanted to sell his food met Mr. Stein in shul at night — except Chaim. The last night before Passover, at eleven-thirty, someone knocked at the door. It woke up the whole house. Eleven-thirty then was like two in the morning now. People had to work. In his underwear, Mr. Stein asked, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Chaim. I came to sell the chometz.”

  “It’s too late, come back in the morning.”

  The next morning at quarter to five a knocking on the Steins’ door woke us all up again. Mr. Stein climbed out of bed.

  “Who is it?” he asked with trepidation. What but bad news could come at that hour?

  “Chaim,” a voice answered.

  “Chaim who?” Mr. Stein persisted.

  “Chaim fun nechtin,” Chaim answered, and from then on he was Chaim Der Nechtiger, Chaim From Yesterday. Remembering the old neighborhood, Kagan smiled. Could Chaim still be alive?

  “You think you have problems, Kagan? Take a look at what happened to these Jews,” Benny said.

  “What?” Kagan asked.

  “I said if you want to know what tsouris is, read about these guys.”

  Kagan leaned forward to get the page number. The musaf service had arrived at the Ten Martyrs. Kagan remembered this somewhat: the Romans killed ten great sages. They were tortured and everything. Each year, Kagan was deeply moved. He couldn’t recall, however, why they were killed.

  Kagan read the English translation to find out. The Roman Emperor, who had studied the Talmudic law, had his palace filled with shoes. Then he commanded the ten sages to appear before him. “Judge these matters honestly,” he said to the sages. “If someone is caught kidnapping an Israelite and sells him into slavery, what is his punishment?” The sages answered, “The thief shall die.” Then the Emperor declared, “Where are your fathers who sold their brother Joseph into slavery for a pair of shoes? You must submit to the judgment of heaven and die. If they were alive I would execute them, but now you must bear their iniquity.”

  Shoes, Kagan said, shoes. Where had he heard that before? Didn’t it have something to do with Pakooz? Pakooz, keep your shoes on. That’s it! Keep your shoes on! Kagan remembered where he had heard it first. The old man in the rumpled green suit told me that after Kol Nidre when I was running out to find the results of the race. Keep your shoes on, instead of keep your shirt on. “Keep your shoes on,” Kagan said quietly, hoping to fathom its meaning by uttering it slowly and distinctly. “Keep your shoes on.” But the pronouncement didn’t yield its secret.

  Kagan turned toward the empty seat as if checking a base runner in a close game; then he picked his way through the room to Bienstock.

  Bienstock, deep in the prayer of the Ten Martyrs, had large wet tears running down his cheeks. Kagan rushed toward him, welcoming those tears as his own. He put his hand on Bienstock’s shoulder and plaintively whispered into his ear.

  “Bienstock, what’s it all about?”

  Bienstock, still crying, looked up at Kagan as if he did not recognize him. Then he said in a hollow voice, “The Ten Martyrs, the Ten Martyrs.”

  “Yes,” said Kagan nodding, and he felt the warm drops in his own eyes swell as he began to weep.

  Bienstock clutched Kagan’s elbow and returned to reading the prayer aloud. Oh, what was done to those righteous men, mourned Kagan and he wept for the death of the righteous. Bienstock concluded the prayer with a shudder of agony.

  “Bienstock?” Kagan asked after the furrier had finished. “What was with the shoes?”

  “The shoes?” Bienstock said quizzically.

  “The Emperor filled his palace with shoes and showed them to the ten sages.”

  “Oh,” said Bienstock, “the shoes. On Yom Kippur, Jacob’s sons sold Joseph into slavery, and with the money they each bought a pair of shoes. The shoes that the Emperor showed them were the evidence of the crime.”

  “Oh,” said Kagan, partially satisfied, “but what about the goat?”

  “The goat has nothing to do with it. That’s something else.”

  “But the g
oat carried off everyone’s sins,” Kagan continued.

  “That’s right,” Bienstock said, satisfied that Kagan finally understood the function of the goat.

  “If the goat carried off all the sins and atoned for all of Israel, why do they have to pay for the sin of their ancestors?”

  Bienstock’s face twisted in discomfort. “They were very righteous,” he answered.

  “I don’t think it’s right,” Kagan said.

  “Neither did the angels,” Bienstock answered.

  “What angels?” Kagan asked.

  Bienstock opened Kagan’s machzor and showed him where the angel cried in anguish to God that it was unjust. God replied that if He heard another word of complaint from the angels, He would turn the world into water. This is His will and all who love the Torah, for which the world was created, must accept it.

  “The show must go on,” Kagan said hoarsely.

  Kagan shook his head and wandered back to his seat.

  I wish Ozzie were here, but I guess that wouldn’t make much difference. If the angels couldn’t understand it, how can I? Where does that leave the little goat? Out in the wilderness, Kagan joked. A joke that struck Kagan as clever, but not very funny. Too much was at stake to lose it for a few laughs.

  At first I didn’t know how the little goat did the job, he groaned. Now I don’t even know if the little goat did do the job. Things seem to be going from bad to worse. As Kagan sat perplexed, Chaim From Yesterday wearily skated into view.

  “Oy gevalt!” said Kagan.

  “What’s wrong?” Danny asked.

  Chaim Der Nechtiger circled on the thin ice, barefoot. Where were his skates?

  “He lost his shoes!” Kagan said fearfully.

  “Who?” Danny asked.

  “What?” asked everyone else.

  Kagan felt torn between the terror of humiliating exposure and the desire to let them know what was happening to him. Who would believe it?

  “I said, he lost his shoes.”

  “Who?” they asked.

  “Whoever,” Kagan answered, “and the Emperor found them and filled his palace with them to accuse the ten sages for the sale of Joseph. I don’t understand it.”