by Roger Herst
When eager questioners infringed upon the afternoon's schedule of events, Lyle Carberri summarily ended the luncheon program. Opponents to Kye's vision for the future mulled about the head table in heated debate until he was urged to move toward the exit. An impenetrable crowd surrounding him dashed Gabby's hope of making contact. That was a particular shame because the more she rehashed events early that morning on the mountainside, the more she believed he had actually saved her from a hunter's bullet.
CHAPTER TWO
SABBATH REQUIEM
For Gabby, to ignore an invitation to run for Congress required discipline. She admonished herself that entertaining the idea was foolish, unworthy of her mental energy. In order to control this flight into dreamland, she attended an after-lunch meeting on campaign finance – a subject she sensed would turn her stomach and expunge forever any latent yearnings for public office. Her suspicion proved to be well founded, though it did not produce her anticipated aversion to politics. The panel speakers' dismissal of campaign finance reform impressed upon her how elected politicians consistently sidestepped anything that might challenge their incumbency. Once elected, public officials regarded their office as a lifetime sinecure. Seen in this light, it was obvious why Kye Naah threatened the current office holders.
In preparation for her Shabbat and Chanukah service in the West Virginia Room, she showered and added light powder to camouflage facial abrasions. By this time, a cut on her right cheek had long since stopped bleeding, but the wound was too unsightly to remove a Band-aide. A gash on her upper lip could not be hidden.
How many Jewish delegates would wish welcome the Sabbath Bride and light Chanukah candles before dinner with friends and associates was anybody's guess. She knew that they must be on tight schedules, many hardly thinking of Sabbath or Chanukah.
She snuggled into a black linen dress trimmed with white lace, feminine and yet professionally appropriate for the Sabbath. Normally she would wear shoes with a modest heel, but, mindful of her injured hip, selected a pair of informal leather flats – not as flattering to her calves and ankles, but at the time she wasn't feeling the least bit attractive. A favorite bone barrette buckled her hair behind her head and a gold necklace adorned her throat. From her suitcase, she gathered pamphlet-sized prayer books and a silver Kiddush cup. While not mandatory at an evening service, she collected her Tallit prayer shawl, reckoning it helpful to appear rabbinical in a setting where one would not expect to see a rabbi. Lastly, she extracted a nine-light bronze menorah and a box of multicolored candles manufactured on an Israeli kibbutz. The hotel's assistant food manager promised to provide Sabbath candles, loaves of challah and other customary foods.
The bedside telephone rang as she was about to exit into the corridor. An impulse told her to let the caller record a message on voicemail. But the thought that perhaps the conference organizers wished to make a last minute change of venue caused her to relent.
"Gabby?" a familiar voice echoed through the receiver.
She immediately recognized the voice of Asa Foreman, her associate rabbi at Ohav Shalom. "Are you all right? Where are you?"
"At the Burn Unit in Washington Hospital Center," the voice revealed the fragility of physical exhaustion. "I didn't want to interrupt you and am trying to handle this horrible situation on my own."
She set her Shabbat paraphernalia on the bed and dropped down beside it sensing this would take time, though she had only fifteen minutes before the scheduled service. "What's wrong, Asa?"
"You got an emergency call at the synagogue from Cyrus Wolfe. Since you were away, I followed up. Cyrus is David Morgenstern's closest friend. You know him?"
"Certainly." "There's been a fire. Tybee and Janean Morgenstern have been burned."
Gabby immediately identified Tybee and Janean as the 8 and 10-year-old daughters of David and Laura Morgenstern. The mellowness of Sabbath peace she usually experienced after sundown on Fridays vanished. Gone, too, the sense of wellbeing at week's end. "How bad?"
"Cyrus didn't know for certain. Second and third degree burns. They say that with plastic surgery Tybee is going to be okay. Janean, who was trying to help her younger sister, was burned worse."
"Sounds awful. Did you say they were in a burn center?"
"Yes. Evacuated at their home by helicopter. I'm calling from a phone booth in the hallway outside. Cantor Blass is covering for me this evening at Kabbalat Shabbat services."
"Are David and Laura with them?"
No answer from the other end. Gabby repeated her question, adding volume the second time.
"They're in the Intensive Care Unit and won't come out to talk with me. Cyrus, who drove them here, told me David is distraught. He doesn't talk. He just sits and sobs like a baby. Laura is coping a little better, though she's known to be an extremely emotional woman. Her hands are now full with her husband."
Gabby didn't want to imagine what Tybee and Janean might look like. No condition disturbed her more than a suffering child, yet years of conditioning taught her not to jump to conclusions. Always gather the facts first and at this moment the facts were slim. "How did it happen?"
"They were lighting the Chanukah and Sabbath candles. That's all I know." His voice sounded bitter.
That disclosure caught Gabby like a broadside from a British Man-of-War. Shabbat candles? Chanukah candles? How could that be? The thought of the girls burned as a result of holiday lights stuck her as utterly pathetic. Lights of bonding, lights of warmth, lights of love, lights of family, lights of devotion to a 3,000 year Jewish tradition, such lights were never intended to cause harm. Sabbath and Chanukah candles should not maim and burn children! The facts were probably scrambled. Hearsay was usually wrong.
"There must be an error," she said. "It can't be the candles. Something else, of course, but not holiday candles."
"Listen, Gabby. It was the candles. That's what the Rescue Squad people confirmed. I feel responsible. I taught the girls to light the menorah. They wanted to surprise their parents when they came home from work. I taught them how. The blame is entirely mine."
"That's sheer nonsense and you know it, Asa."
"If I hadn't encouraged them, things would be different."
"That's unadulterated bullshit. And I'm not going to let you blame yourself. Anyone with more than tapioca for brains knows this was an accident. I've got to officiate at a service in a few minutes. I'll call you as soon as I'm finished. I presume you're going home now."
"I'm planning to stay here a bit longer. I've already had the nurse give my name to David and Laura twice. Maybe they'll let me see them soon."
"They must be in shock. They're hurting and angry."
"Cyrus Wolfe told me David cursed me, you, and the synagogue."
"There must be a misunderstanding," Gabby responded. "Under no conditions are you and the synagogue responsible."
"Tell that to the parents."
"I will," she said while glancing at her grandmother's watch on her wrist, noting the minute hand advancing toward 7 p.m. "If necessary, I'll drive back to Washington after the services."
"Let's talk first. I should have a better picture of the medical situation. I'll call you after your services."
She let her weight sink deeper into the mattress while imagining faces of mutilated children, their tiny noses spongy and unreal, their inquisitive eyes nothing but hollow sockets, their once plump cheeks now deeply pitted. Reconstructed limbs and body parts were bad enough, but reconstructed faces were hideous. Her attention shifted to the candles. They were Judaism's candles. How dare they burn two young girls! She knew better than to blame God for this tragedy, yet holiday candles were holy fire. Where were His Ministering Angels when needed? Where, the divine wings protecting the young? How could Heaven be so negligent? For holiday lights to maim was to make a mockery of what she held sacred. Was she teaching superstition? She assumed Ohav kids would look to their rabbis for an explanation. How could she explain this? How might she and Asa teach chi
ldren to honor the holiness of the festivals when the very observance injured them?
Her mind replayed events leading to the tragedy. The Morgenstern girls showed interest in their faith. Their mother was a non-practicing Protestant and their father a non-practicing Jew. Laura Morgenstern understood almost nothing of Judaism. David, a developer and owner of upscale apartment houses in the Washington metropolitan area, understood only a fraction more. Mother and father had joined Ohav Shalom to provide their children with the religious education and background lacking in their home.
The girls were enthusiastic. After religious school, they initiated long conversations with Asa. Being from a large family, he was extremely comfortable with youngsters and knew how to talk with them. Never condescending. Never didactic. If their parents didn't know enough to conduct Jewish ceremonies at home, why, asked Asa, couldn't they teach their parents? The children, not the parents, were determined to make Jewish holidays special and looked to their rabbis for guidance. Asa provided what any rabbi would – instruction and encouragement. But suddenly, she wondered if their zeal had unwittingly turned them into executioners. Sabbath warmth turned cold, its once dazzling light dimmed into a frigid darkness. Its holiness was now profane.
***
Greenbrier staff knew how to accommodate hotel guests. In the West Virginia Room, chairs were arranged in a semi-circle before the speaker's lectern, adorned with winter poinsettia and snowy white hothouse carnations. In contrast to the nippy December air outside, comforting warmth permeated the room. Soft light filtered down from fin-de-siècle chandeliers. Over-sized loaves of egg challah, smoked fish, and blocks of cheese were invitingly arranged on perimeter tables. Symmetrical rows of empty glasses for Kiddush waited before bottles of kosher Concord grape wine. For Shabbat, a pair of foot-long white candles jutted upward like miniature Eiffel Towers.
Normally punctilious about worship, Gabby was seven minutes late. It was her custom to greet the worshippers with introductory words about the liturgy, but she was in no mood to teach anything. To her surprise, about fifty people were waiting to greet the Sabbath Bride – some with Semitic faces she recognized, most she did not. She had witnessed the phenomenon before: in remote places, the yearning for Jewish expression tended to increase.
Since the majority in attendance was unfamiliar with traditional holiday melodies, she found herself chanting alone. The repetitious Sabbath liturgy barely required mental attention. Her lips fashioned the Hebrew phrases and her voice, adequate though far from operatic, carried the melodies. A few celebrants lent their voices to upbeat Israeli melodies. That she knew the prayers by heart helped, since squared Hebrew letters in the prayer booklet glared back at her in the grotesque shapes of mutilated faces.
She made a practice of considering her audience before selecting a sermon topic and, knowing that participants this evening would be political activists, she spoke on the reluctance of the Hebrew prophets to assume leadership. Unlike American politicians who campaign with indefatigable energy for the right to represent others in government, the early Hebrew leaders were leery of governance. Moses shunned the responsibility the Hebrew god, Yahweh, placed upon his shoulder. King Solomon knew full well the pitfalls of authority before being anointed by the prophet, Saul. Yet, like contemporary politicians, once he had tasted the sweet nectar of power he could not bring himself to surrender his crown, especially to the upstart David. In an earlier epoch, several of Israel's Judges had begun their careers modestly, but once empowered with authority, became autocratic and tyrannical. Their examples teach of a human failing – nothing in politics corrupts as much as power. Her theme reflected a current debate over the benefits and constitutionality of term limitations for members of Congress.
After the conclusion of formal worship, participants assembled in the rear to kindle the Sabbath and Chanukah candles and to bless wine and bread. Despite what she considered her lackluster performance on the pulpit, the solemnity of the evening had descended over those circling about. Jews, she sensed, felt good that the DNC has officially recognized its Jewish members. With her mind on the Morgenstern family, she had forgotten Lyle Carberri's earlier pledge to attend, and when he materialized she was surprised. A friendly, winsome smile captured his pudgy face.
She invited everyone to join in blessings over the Sabbath candles. Her eyes fell upon the tapers while her mind imagined flames from a raging inferno. In the middle of the baracha, blessing, the dam holding back her emotions broke. Terror of maimed children's faces flooded her consciousness. Hideous, holocaust images usurped her vision. Sabbath fire disappeared behind grotesque juvenile masks. Like Greek sirens luring mariners along treacherous Aegean seas, these ghosts of Sabbath mocked the worshippers. From a booklet of matches, she ripped off a match and struck against the igniting strip at the bottom. The cardboard shaft crumpled in her fingers. A second suffered the same fate. A third burst into flame, but guttered and immediately died, leaving behind a thin plumb of smoke. Her fourth attempt succeeded.
Stress often caused her hands to shake. She knew how to hide this reaction from those far away, but her method failed with individuals close by. While the flame in the latest match burned, a strong tremor transferred from her hand to her arm. Folks expected her to ignite a wick and move quickly to the second. But as the flame burned inexorably toward her fingers, an insurmountable gap opened between Gabby's trembling hand and the Sabbath taper. She tried to close the distance but her hand would not cooperate. As the flame approached her thumb and forefinger, those standing nearby perceived the danger and held their breaths. Her lips remained closed.
She was vaguely aware of a body threading through the first row of participants, then firm fingers on her wrist to steady the shaking. It guided her hand across the gap to kindle the first wick.
An eighth inch from her fingertips, the dangerous flame flickered. She leaned forward to blow it out, but a foreign hand rose before her lips to shield her breath, then ushered her fingers forward to transfer flame immediately to the second wick. "Blow now, Rabbi Gabrielle," Kye Naah said, removing his hand from her lips.
As soon as the match degenerated into a stream of smoke, participants sounded their relief. "Good Shabbos, Good Shabbos,” rippled through the crowd with some individuals kissing each other.
A series of blessings for Chanukah followed. Feeling Kye Naah's presence beside her, she struck a new match which failed. A second produced a small flame for transferring to the shamash candle, set apart from the others. She gave this taper to Kye and pointed to the first candle on the right, then began chanting the familiar blessing and song, Mah-oz tzur.
"This is the person I wanted to meet you," Lyle Carberri drew himself near. "I've told Kye about how we hope you'll run for the eighth Congressional seat in Maryland and he said he'd like to meet you. He's a trustee at the Korean Baptist Church in Bethesda."
Gabby's eyes widened while she spoke to Kyle. "This is the second time today you've saved me from disaster."
"Hardly a disaster, but perhaps a nasty burn. I see I did considerable damage to your face, Rabbi."
"Nevertheless, thanks a second time. I hope this doesn't become a habit."
"So do I. I enjoyed your message this evening. I agree with you that addiction to power is a real problem. Humility is a rare commodity in Washington. Our representatives seldom lose an opportunity to tell us how much they sacrifice in public service, but I don't recall anyone co-opted into the office. And they let us know how much more money they could make in the private sector, but I don't see many trading their cushy government jobs with the unlimited bounty of perks for competitive posts elsewhere. From what I see, I don't believe you'd be that kind of representative, Rabbi."
"I have a big mouth and wouldn't last long," she replied. "Besides, you wouldn't want a congresswoman who can't even hold a match steady."
"Oh, I wouldn't mind," Lyle broke in, "so long as you are steady in holding your office."
She glared at Lyle Carberri, kno
wing that at the moment, he must be having second thoughts about her candidacy. Who would want someone who couldn't even light candles when it was in her bloody job description?
At the refreshment table, friends clustered around, asking questions about the service and commenting about her message. They politely failed to mention her difficulty with matches.
Before leaving, Lyle circled back into orbit with her and whispered. "Despite the opposition you saw today at lunch, there are people at the DNC committed to the Internet. We see no reason why Politicstoday can't make Democratic winners as easily as Independent winners. I believe Kye could get you elected, if you catch my drift. I'd like the two of you to talk sometime tonight or tomorrow."
His support for her candidacy remained puzzling. But given the tragedy in Washington, her earlier interest cascaded. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carberri. Two young children in my congregation were just burned in a terrible fire. That's why I was shaking this evening."
"Oh," he digested this admission with a series of compassionate nods. "Anything I can do to help? The tentacles of the DNC reach just about everywhere. A call from the archangel, Lyle, makes miracles occur. My name can call into service just about any physician in the country, that is so long as he or she isn't a black-hearted Republican."
Her head shook negatively. "Thanks. We're waiting to see how bad the injuries really are."
"Then will you speak with Kye tomorrow?"
"Afraid not. I'm driving back tonight. There's a Bat Mitzvah scheduled tomorrow morning at my synagogue. My colleague is on the pulpit and I must back him up."
"Perhaps I can arrange a conference with you and Kye in Washington."
She didn't want to be rude, but felt the pressure. "Yes, perhaps, Mr. Carberri. But not until we put this tragedy behind us. I'm not optimistic about your proposal and for the immediate future, I can't give it my attention."
"Kye will change your mind. He's got a fabulous idea for your campaign. When you hear what he has in mind, you'll come aboard."
