Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories

by Allen Hoffman

  “I don’t either,” said Benny. “It always seemed like a pretty weak legal case to me.”

  “That’s life. No one understands it,” said Schwartz.

  “Moe,” Benny said in serious appreciation, “for somebody who came late, you’re really getting into things.”

  “Too deep,” mourned Kagan.

  “Be careful,” Schwartz advised.

  “Thanks,” Kagan answered, nodding his head.

  Kagan wondered how long Chaim Der Nechtiger could last like that.

  9

  THEY continued straight into the afternoon prayer with its short Torah reading about forbidden sexual relationships. Kagan welcomed it for he had grown extremely agitated as Chaim From Yesterday’s bare feet slid across the ice. Kagan found himself stamping his own feet for warmth. The straightforward Torah reading with its old-fashioned prohibitions reassured and comforted him.

  No more Bungalow Bar, said Kagan with a relaxed feeling. That’s what religion is supposed to be all about: what you can’t eat, who you can’t screw. Fair is fair. No more Bungalow Bar, he said, not with rueful resignation but with the thrill of discovering a compass in an uncharted wilderness.

  Kagan turned away from Chaim From Yesterday (what did he have to do with religion, anyhow?) and stood by the curb in the old neighborhood waiting for the little specially designed truck. The ice-cream bar itself wasn’t anything special, but the truck was magic. A veritable bungalow with its slanted roof, flower-filled window boxes, and real screen door, all riding fresh as a daisy through the hot, melting asphalt streets lined with heat-blasted old brick buildings. Just watching it turn the corner, Kagan would forget that he stood on roasting pavement in front of the “new building,” where heads lolled on fire escapes, risking decapitation from the old heavy windows that had been raised in a futile effort to escape the inescapable heat. Suddenly the Bungalow Bar truck appeared and Kagan thought he was barefoot in the country, the sweet meadow smells rising softly around him. The magic went beyond the mobile bungalow, ambassador of the mountains. With delicious anticipation, more pleasurable than the ice cream itself, Kagan would lick the last remnant of the enshrouding vanilla from the stick and if the word “BUNGALOW” appeared, you won another Bungalow Bar!

  That Bungalow Bar made summer worthwhile — the truck, the ice cream, the search for treasure. Kagan smiled. One summer Louie heard that the ice cream wasn’t kosher. They used gelatin or some other forbidden ingredient. And — no more Bungalow Bar!

  Kagan looked inside his machzor to follow the Torah reading: “You shall not have intercourse with your father’s wife.” No more Bungalow Bar, thought Kagan. “You shall not have intercourse with your sister.” No more Bungalow Bar, responded Kagan. “You shall not have intercourse with your son’s daughter or your daughter’s daughter.” No more Bungalow Bar! No more Bungalow Bar!

  Kagan found his rhythmic “amen” very satisfactory. That’s what the Torah’s all about, he thought, reveling in the rigid structure.

  His satisfaction did not last long. As the purchaser of Maftir Yonah (Mermelstein, the not very lovable landlord) was called to read the Book of Jonah, a siren’s howl on Broadway came shrieking into the shtibl. Unable to follow the service, everyone looked up, waiting for the interruption to pass.

  As it began to fade, Benny commented, “For this, the old ladies have the windows open.”

  Kagan, however, didn’t hear Benny’s remark. He was watching something else: Chaim Der Nechtiger falling through the ice, a wretched look of horror on his old, normally placid face.

  Kagan jumped to his feet.

  “He needs help!” he said and ran from the shtibl after the fading siren.

  HIS old Bob-Cousy-Celtic sneakers measuring the even sidewalk in confident rubberized bounds, Kagan ran down warm, sunny Ninety-first Street.

  As he rounded the corner, turning downtown, he ran headlong into Broadway’s crowded sidewalk. His momentum flinging him forward, he threw his body from side to side, but his furious slalom swerves proved insufficient to negotiate the shifting human forest. Clipping strollers, Kagan went spinning off them only to bump others, regaining his balance in a mad whirl. Hoping to find some room to maneuver, he sliced toward the curbs, his cushioned feet dashing to stay under the erratic zigzag path his plunging body pursued from point to point like a hard, silvered metal ball in a pinball machine. Stiff-arming a knob-topped parking meter to avoid disaster, he suddenly realized that the fading siren was on the verge of disappearing among the jostling afternoon sounds. Grabbing the next parking meter, he held on long enough to pivot around it and dashed into the street.

  People stared as Kagan tore down the street, too far behind the distant echoes of the siren’s soprano shriek for anyone to associate it with the stimulus for his speed. Kagan maintained his wondrous form for two blocks, but age and a day without food or drink took their toll on his straining body. The old, high-cut black sneakers began thumping Broadway in less than robust bounds as the faded rubber soles slapped the decayed pavement. Kagan, breathing deeply in lung-searing gasps, refused to slow down, and frantically tried to draw in enough oxygen to fuel the outrageous demands of his aged and ill-conditioned body. And as the high fluid pressures exploded in his head where the mad, oxygenated blood spurted toward the apogee of its circular course, Kagan understood. The goats made sense: vulnerability!

  At Eighty-sixth Street, Kagan paused. His chest heaved in fractured dislocations that sent pain shooting through his lungs. But before Kagan realized how far his lungs trailed his legs, he was running again; he had sighted the revolving red light of the police car.

  AT Eighty-third Street, a crowd shielded both the police car and the victim. Impervious to his pain and his unsteady step, Kagan tried to force his way through the morbidly curious crowd toward the victim. He knew who it had to be. The shoulder-to-shoulder crowd presented an impenetrable wall of backs. Seeking an opening, Kagan skirted along its murmuring fringes. “Hit and run,” uttered low, deprecating voices. Kagan couldn’t get in close. Standing on tiptoe, he saw that the crowd pressed forward up to the narrow island bisecting Broadway. If he circled around he might then step over the fence and cross over the sparsely grassed enclosure back to the downtown lane where the victim lay.

  Following this stratagem, Kagan circled the crowd and crossed into the uptown lane where a trickle of vehicles inched forward, their drivers staring curiously across the dirty green island. Some inquired what the commotion was all about, but Kagan ignored them in his single-minded dedication to get closer. Stepping over the low metal railing onto the island, he felt the sooty grit underfoot. As Kagan glanced up to check his route, he was aware of a bobbing green patch on the periphery of his vision. More in reflex than in thought, he turned to focus on it.

  Someone was waving to him from the benches at the end of the island in the middle of Broadway.

  “My God,” Kagan said as he waved back to the man in the rumpled green suit.

  “GUT Shabbes, gut yontiff,” Kagan said, extending his hand. His heart trembled.

  “Gut Shabbes, gut yontiff,” the old man said evenly and politely, standing to greet Kagan.

  “May you be sealed in the Book of Life,” Kagan responded.

  “May you be sealed in the Book of Life.”

  The old man with his slightly sagging face punctuated with his caved-in features seemed friendly enough but not terribly warm. He was no Isaacson, that’s for sure.

  “How do you feel?” he asked Kagan.

  Kagan was surprised to hear this question.

  “Fine,” he answered matter-of-factly. “How are you?”

  “I feel a little weak.”

  “You do?” Kagan asked politely.

  “Yes, I’m fasting.”

  “So am I,” Kagan said, suddenly remembering he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since yesterday afternoon. “My God, I haven’t even thought about that.”

  “Well, I have,” the old man said. “Do you mind if we sit
down? Besides, we might get trampled if we stand here.”

  Facing uptown, they sat on a green wooden bench (considerably darker in color than the old man’s suit) and could see the crowd milling expectantly about the victim.

  “Why?” Kagan asked simply.

  “I guess they want a mitzvah. So they’re running to help that poor fellow,” the old man answered.

  “No,” Kagan said thinking that this might prove to be an extremely exhausting encounter; the old man might not want to discuss it. He was no Bienstock either. “Not that. Why?” Kagan insisted.

  “Why what?” the old man asked in reply.

  “Why are you doing what you are doing? Why did you do what you did?” Kagan asked.

  “Oh,” the old man said, “because it’s Yom Kippur. That’s why I’m fasting.”

  “No, not that,” Kagan interrupted.

  “Please, let me finish.”

  Kagan sat back to let him finish.

  “I’m fasting,” he said, “because it’s a mitzvah on Yom Kippur to afflict one’s soul. That’s important. You shouldn’t forget. It helps if you want to make it.”

  “Okay,” Kagan said, not listening very carefully. “But why? Why did you move the curtain last night and change the outcome of the race?”

  The old man sighed as if he were reticent to discuss the fine points of the matter.

  “First of all, Moe, you must understand that I wanted to see if a lady needed a machzor.”

  “But that’s not why you did it.”

  “Of course that’s not why I did it, but that’s how I did it. If it would not have been for that, I never could have done it. It’s confusing, but very important. Don’t forget that, too.”

  “But why did you do it?” Kagan insisted.

  Sighing again, the old man reluctantly continued. “He didn’t corrupt you, Moe.”

  A tenderness had entered the old man’s voice. He put his hand on Kagan’s knee.

  “Who?” Kagan wondered aloud in confusion. “Who didn’t corrupt me?”

  “Whoever wanted you to bet on Shabbes and Yom Kippur,” the old man answered. “Ozzie? Ozzie wanted to corrupt me?”

  The old man nodded reluctantly.

  “But Ozzie’s an angel.”

  The old man looked uncomfortable. A pained expression creased his sagging face.

  “Ozzie is an angel, isn’t he?” Kagan asked.

  “Yes, he certainly is.”

  Kagan was confused. “Why would he want to corrupt me?”

  The old man in the rumpled green suit stirred uneasily. “I’d rather not get into that.”

  “But he is an angel?”

  “One of the most talented,” the old man stated definitively.

  What do you know about that? thought Kagan. One of the best. He knew that 5 — 7 — 3 — 4 was the winner, all right. He’s one of the best, my angel.

  “Five — seven — three — four should have won the race?” Kagan asked.

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t say ‘should have.’ I would say it ‘would have.’”

  “And it didn’t because I didn’t bet it on Shabbes?” Kagan said with a trace of pride. That’s what I call a reward for doing a mitzvah, he thought jubilantly. Wait till Ozzie hears about this.

  “Wait till Ozzie hears about this!” Kagan crowed.

  “He already knows,” the old man said quietly.

  “He does?” uttered Kagan, his newfound confidence shattered. “You’re sure?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Wait a minute, thought Kagan. “What if I bet those numbers tonight?” he asked quickly.

  “They’ll win,” the old man said quietly.

  Kagan clapped his hands and jumped to his feet. “They’ll win!” he cried. He sat down again, a wealthy man.

  “I’ll make a fortune.”

  The old man didn’t answer.

  “I’ll make a fortune, won’t I?”

  The old man smiled sadly.

  “Well, what’s wrong with that? I can use the money. It’s not against the law. What’s wrong?” Kagan demanded.

  The old man squirmed and shrugged.

  If you act that way all the time, no wonder your lousy green suit is so rumpled, Kagan thought. “Everyone else makes a fast buck. Why shouldn’t I? I can do a lot of good with the money. I can pay some debts for one thing. So what’s wrong?”

  Only a shrug.

  Kagan, an impassioned advocate desirous of a favorable comment, plunged into the argument. “What’s wrong with a little gambling?”

  No answer.

  “It can’t be so bad. They did it in the Temple, you know!” Then he added, “That’s what Yom Kippur is all about....” His remark began in rapid, voluminous tones with passionate conviction but turned along the way into a quiet statement of wonderment as Kagan came to realize that he was trapped, boxed in. And he knew where, too. In the box with the two ballots where he saw fourteen, maybe fifteen thousand dollars being dragged off to Azazel by that little white goat.

  “My God,” Kagan said in sober awe.

  “Yes.”

  Kagan looked at the old man in the rumpled green suit and they both squirmed.

  “Vulnerability?” Kagan asked quietly.

  “I think so,” the old man nodded.

  “That’s what the game is all about,” mused Kagan, amazed at his newfound wisdom. “Either goat can wind up in either place. The goat for the Lord is no different from the goat for Azazel and it could have been the goat for Azazel. That’s the name of the game, vulnerability. The human condition. The two goats are the same because there is really just one goat, me — or any man. We have the choice to turn toward either direction and that’s why Yom Kippur atones, because we are vulnerable — that’s our situation — and if we do tshuvah, return, the atonement erases the sins.”

  “More,” the old man said soberly. “It purifies them. They become as positive acts.”

  Kagan sat still. “Even as good deeds?”

  “Yes.”

  “The past is at stake as well as the future?”

  “The world is at stake,” the old man said with sudden conviction.

  “The world?”

  “Every man must look upon the world as if it is created exclusively for him.”

  “Really?” Kagan asked as a twinge of excitement cascaded through his sense of awe. Kagan loved information.

  “Yes, because it is created exclusively for him!” the old man repeated.

  “It is?” Kagan wondered.

  “It is!” the old man insisted.

  “It is!” Kagan understood.

  “And yet….”

  Kagan accepted the emendation. “And yet, the world that was created for the Ten Martyrs destroyed them.”

  “Yes, and yet — the world was created for them; they accepted it. They sanctified and purified it. They saved the world that was created for them.”

  Kagan nodded.

  “They chose life!” the old man added.

  “I think I accept that, but I’m not sure I understand it,” Kagan said.

  “Few do. I’ve had trouble with it myself for years.”

  “You have?” asked Kagan.

  “Yes, Moe. Even the angels went crazy and they’re not given to praising man. It’s like a quiz show. Someone is asked a difficult question to win a car. He gives the right answer, but when he steps out of the isolation booth to collect the prize, he discovers that it hasn’t been invented yet, or the roads are destroyed, or he is blind.”

  Kagan looked at his pickle-green watch with tender amusement and new understanding. “Do you know how many men walked on the moon?”

  “Men or astronauts?” the old man asked for clarification.

  “Oh really?” asked Kagan, excited at the implication of a significant surprise.

  “No matter,” said the old man. “I don’t watch quiz shows. They bore me.”

  “You watch sports?” Kagan asked hopefully.

  “A little chess. Those guys
are smart!” the old man said in awe.

  “But don’t you know who’s going to win?”

  “How should I know? Those guys are really smart!”

  “No,” said Kagan jumping back to his earlier question. “I meant basketball or baseball. I had a crazy dream last night.”

  “I know,” said the old man.

  “You do?” asked Kagan.

  “Yes, but we were talking about quiz shows. Why were we talking about them, Moe?”

  “You were explaining something about the Ten Martyrs.”

  “Well, it probably wasn’t a very good explanation since I’m not so sure I understand it.”

  “Oh,” said Kagan sympathetically.

  “Sometimes it all comes together. Not so long ago I saw it all,” the old man said with confidence.

  “You did?”

  “Moe, in the Second World War, the Nazis surrounded a town containing a small Jewish house of study. There was no escape possible, only certain death. In fear, the students turned to their rabbi for guidance. He told them, ‘God has chosen us for sacrifices. We must purge ourselves of evil for only a pure sacrifice is accepted by God.’”

  “Did that happen on Yom Kippur?”

  “That day was Yom Kippur for the world, all right. They succeeded, Moe. To this day, all you have to say is ‘Rav Hananael Wasserman’ and the angels shut up.”

  “They do?” asked Kagan wondering about the angels’ role in all of this.

  “Sure!” the old man said heatedly. “Where do the angels come to something like that? What do they know, Moe? They have no staying power; they lack imagination. Man has those things. We’re made in God’s image, you know, and that’s what drives the angels crazy. Don’t worry about Ozzie, Moe. You can handle him. You have already.”

  “I have?”

  “Moe, he hasn’t corrupted you yet. Do you know how far the thing can go?”

  He was slow warming up, Kagan thought, but once he gets going, this guy makes up for lost time.

  “How far?” Kagan asked cooperatively.

  “I’ll tell you how far. The angels who were sent to tell Lot that Sodom would be destroyed said, ‘For we will destroy Sodom,’ as if they — and not God — were to destroy it. For that they were banished from heaven and had to wander the earth in humiliation until Jacob redeemed them. Not until Jacob dreamed his dream of the angels ascending the ladder could they return to heaven!”