Saturday The Rabbi Went Hungry
Copyright © 1966, 2002 by Ann Kemelman
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CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR HARRY KEMELMAN’S RABBI DAVID SMALL
“Harry Kemelman has come through as a winner again . . . A good tale well told.”
—The New York Times
“Another Sholem Aleichem . . . An excellent storyteller . . . Here is detective work at its best.”
—Detroit Press
“Detailed with humor and intelligence. Top quality!”
—Bestsellers
“Wise and witty.”
—Saturday Review
The Creation of Rabbi Small
A Special Foreword by Harry Kemelman
I was born and grew up in a Jewish neighborhood in Boston. We moved several times, but always to a Jewish neighborhood, that is, one which had enough Jews to support a Jewish butcher shop and a Jewish grocery where you could buy herring and hard-crusted rye bread rather than the wax-wrapped loaf advertised as “untouched by human hand” (understandably) that was sold in the chain stores. These had to be within walking distance of one’s home. Few people had cars in those days, and even those were stored in a garage for the winter since streets were not plowed, only sanded. Any area that could support these two was also able to sup-port a shul or a synagogue.
I stayed out of school for every Jewish holiday, accompanying my father to the synagogue, mumbling the required passages as fast as I could but never as fast as my father. He would recite the Amidah and sit down before I was halfway through, even though I skipped a lot. During the High Holidays, when the synagogue was jammed, I would say I was going up to the balcony to see my mother, and then skip out and play with the other youngsters, and later when I was a teenager, stand around and flirt with the girls.
Although everyone in the congregation recited the passages in Hebrew, only a few knew the meaning of the words they were saying.
We did not pray, at least not in the sense of asking or beseeching. We davened, which consisted of reciting blessings expressing our gratitude, reading passages from the Bible and the Psalms. What petitionary prayers there were, were for the land of Israel and for the Jewish nation as a whole. It is perhaps simplistic, but nevertheless indicative, that our equivalent of “Give us this day our daily bread” is “Blessed art thou, O Lord, for bringing forth bread from the earth.”
Fifty years ago, I moved to the Yankee town that I have called Barnard’s Crossing in my books, where the few Jews in the area had decided to establish a synagogue. Of necessity, since there were so few of us, it was set up as a Conservative synagogue so that the few older members who were likely to be Orthodox on the one hand and the Reform on the other, would not feel the service too strange. In point of fact, most of them knew little or nothing of their religion. They were second and third generation Americans; their parents had received little from their immigrant parents and passed on even less to their children. Only one or two of the older Orthodox members kept kosher homes.
They knew about religion in general from their reading or from the movies they had seen, but little or nothing of the tenets of Judaism. Typical was the reaction of the young lawyer who had asked the rabbi they had engaged to bless the Cadillac he had just bought. He was surprised and hurt when the rabbi refused and said he did not bless things. The friends in the synagogue whom he told of the rabbi’s refusal felt much the same way.
I was fascinated by the disaccord between the thinking of the rabbi and that of the congregation, and the problems it gave rise to. So I wrote a book about it. My editor, Arthur Fields, thought the book too low-keyed and suggested jokingly that I could brighten it up by introducing some of the exciting elements in the detective stories that I had written. As I passed by the large parking lot of our synagogue it occurred to me that it was an excellent place to hide a body. And as a rabbi is one who is learned in the law and whose basic function is to sit as a judge in cases brought before him, it seemed to me that he was the ideal character to act as an amateur detective by searching out the truth. Thus was born Rabbi David Small.
CHAPTER
ONE
On the tenth day of this seventh month is the day of atonement, a holy convocation shall it be unto you, and ye shall fast . . . and no manner of work shall ye do on this day . . . it shall be a statute forever throughout your generations in all your dwellings. A sabbath of rest it shall be unto you, and ye shall fast: on the ninth day of the month at evening shall ye begin, from evening unto evening shall ye celebrate your sabbath.
This year the Day of Atonement coincided with the weekly Sabbath, so that the ninth day of the month in the Hebrew calendar fell on a Friday and the tenth on Saturday. It did not make the day any holier—that was impossible—but it enabled most Jews to observe the holiday without interrupting their normal work week. Late Friday afternoon the Jewish community of Barnard’s Crossing, like Jews everywhere, was making ready for this most holy day of the year. The women were preparing the evening meal, which traditionally was more elaborate than usual not only to set off more sharply the twenty-four-hour fast that followed but to give the sustenance needed to endure it. The men had left work early to give them time to bathe, change into holiday clothes, dine, and still get to the synagogue before sundown when the chanting of Kol Nidre ushered in the Holy Day.
David Small, the young rabbi of the community, had finished dressing and now stood for inspection in front of the critical eye of his wife, Miriam. He was of medium height, but although in excellent health he was thin and pale, and behind his glasses his eyes were dark, deep-set, and brooding. He carried his head slightly forward as though peering at a book; his shoulders had a scholarly stoop.
His wife was tiny and vivacious with a mass of blonde hair that seemed to overbalance her. She had wide blue eyes and an open, trusting countenance that would have seemed ingenuous were it not offset by a determined little chin. There was a certain childlike quality about her that not even the protuberant belly marking her final month of pregnancy could dispel.
“Your suit, David—the jacket doesn’t hang right some-how. Stand up straight and throw your shoulders back.”
He made the effort.
“It’s that top button. It’s a good half inch off and pulls the lapel askew.”
“It fell off and I sewed it on myself. You were at a Hadassah meeting.”
“Well, give it to me and I’ll resew it.” She examined the button critically. “Why did you use blue thread when the suit is gray?”
“Actually it’s white thread. I colored it with my fountain pen. Besides, my kittel will cover it during services.”
“And what about on the way to the temple? And talking to the members afterward? And your shoes are dusty.”
He started to rub his shoe against the calf of his trouser leg.
“David!”
“They’ll only get dusty again when we walk to the temple,” he said apologetically.
“Use the shoe brush.”
He uttered a faint sigh of protest but went to the back hallway, and presently she heard sharp staccato whisks.
When he returned she helped him on with his jacket, adjusting the set on his shoulders like a tailor, and then buttoned it. She patted the front of the jacket. “There, that looks better.”
“Am I all right now? Do I p
ass muster?”
“You’re handsome, David.”
“Then we’d better get on with it.” From his wallet he extracted two one-dollar bills and gave her one and kept one for himself. Automatically he started to return the wallet to his back pocket, then thought better of it and went inside and put it away in his bureau drawer. He did not carry money on the Sabbath.
He came back with a prayer book in hand. Flipping the pages with index and second fingers, he found the place and handed her the open book. He pointed. “There’s the prayer.”
She read the Hebrew passage that explained that this money was for charity in partial atonement for her sins. Then she folded the bill and inserted it in the opening of the blue tin charity box that she kept on a shelf in the kitchen.
“Is a dollar enough, David?”
“It’s just a token.” He slipped in his own folded bill. “You know, my grandfather who lived with us a few years before he died, used for his offering a live rooster, which, I understood, was given to the poor. According to the custom, a man would use a rooster and a woman a hen. You now, in your condition, would be expected to use a hen and an egg.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, seriously.”
“And what would happen to the egg?”
“Oh, I suppose we’d eat it.”
“It sounds cannibalistic.”
“Now that you mention it. My folks used money, of course, usually in some multiple of eighteen. My father would accumulate coins for the purpose, dimes, as I recall, and he and my mother each would use eighteen. As a youngster I was given eighteen pennies.”
“Why eighteen?”
“Because in Hebrew the two letters in the alphabet that represent the numerals eight and ten spell chai, which means life—a bit of cabalistic nonsense, really. Come to think of it, today is the eighteenth of September, which gives it even added significance. I should have arranged to get some coins.”
“I’ve got a bunch of pennies, David—”
“I think the poor would appreciate a dollar more than eighteen cents. We’ll let it go this time and try to remember next year. But now if we don’t want to be late we’d better eat.”
They sat down and he pronounced the blessing. The telephone rang. The rabbi, who was nearer, picked up the instrument.
From the receiver came a loud voice. “Rabbi? Rabbi Small? This is Stanley. You know, Stanley Doble from the temple.”
Stanley was the temple janitor and general maintenance man, and although he saw the rabbi almost every day he still found it necessary to identify himself as Stanley Doble from the temple—like some heraldic title—whenever he phoned. Although he had an instinctive knowledge of all things electrical and mechanical, apparently he considered the phone wire a hollow tube through which he had to shout to be heard.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Rabbi, but the public-address system is on the blink.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“It don’t work right. It don’t work right at all. It howls.”
“Maybe by tonight it will straighten itself out,” suggested the rabbi, who regarded all mechanical devices as a mystery; they got out of order owing to some perversity and might right themselves if let alone. Then hopefully, “Maybe a minor adjustment?”
“I checked the wiring. I couldn’t find anything. I think it’s the microphone. I think maybe it’s broken.”
“Is there anyone you can call for service? How about the company that installed it?”
“It’s a Boston outfit.”
The rabbi glanced at his watch. “Then there’s no sense in calling at this hour. What about someone in Lynn or Salem?”
“It’s pretty late, Rabbi. Most places are closed by now.”
“Well, I’ll just have to talk a little louder then. Perhaps you had better call the cantor and tell him.”
“Okay, Rabbi. Sorry to bother you, but I thought you’d like to know.”
The rabbi returned to his soup which his wife had set before him. He just started on it when the phone rang again. It was Mrs. Robinson, president of the Sisterhood. “Oh, Rabbi, Sue Robinson.” Her voice had a breathless quality as though she had sighted him at a distance and caught up with him only at the corner. “Forgive me for interrupting your pre-Holy Day meditations, but it’s frightfully important. You were going to make an announcement on the floral decorations, weren’t you?” She sounded accusing.
“Of course. Just a minute.” He opened his prayer book to a sheet of paper he had inserted. “I have it right here—Floral decorations, courtesy of the Sisterhood.”
“Well, there’s a change. Do you have a pencil and paper handy? I’ll hold on.”
“All right.”
“Rose Bloom—no, you had better make that Mr. and Mrs. Ira Bloom, in memory of her father David Isaac Lavin—”
“Lavin?”
“That’s right, she pronounces it Lavin, L-a-v-i-n, with a long A. She insists that’s nearer the original Hebrew than if she spelled it the usual way with an E. Is that right, Rabbi?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Well, of course if you say so, but it still sounds affected to me. Anyway, Floral decorations, courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Ira Bloom. You don’t want to make a mistake on the names, Rabbi,” she said sharply. “I would have called earlier, but she called me only half an hour ago.”
“I won’t forget.” He read the announcement back to her from his scribbled notes.
“Splendid. Oh, and Rabbi, you might tell Miriam. She’ll want to know.”
“Of course. I’ll tell her.”
He carefully copied over the hastily penciled note, printing the names neatly so he would make no mistake when making his announcements from the pulpit. Back at the table, he took a few spoonfuls of soup and shook his head. “I don’t think I care for any more,” he said apologetically.
“It’s probably cold by now.” She removed the plate.
The phone rang again. It was a Mrs. Rosoff. “Tell me, Rabbi,” she said, and tried to keep her voice calm, “I don’t like to disturb you at this time, but how much does the Torah weigh? You know, the Scroll?”
“Why, I don’t know, Mrs. Rosoff. The Scrolls are of different sizes, so I suppose they would vary quite a bit in weight. Is it important? I imagine most of ours would be about thirty pounds apiece, but that would be only a guess.”
“Well, I think it’s important, Rabbi. My husband got a notice last week that he was to have an honor for Yom Kippur. They said he would be hagboh. And I just found out what it means. It means, Rabbi, that he is supposed to lift the Scroll up by the handles way over his head. Is this the kind of honor you give to a man who had a heart attack not three years ago, and who to this day wouldn’t think of going out into the street without his little bottle of nitroglycerine pills? Is this how you give out honors, Rabbi? You’d like to see my husband have a heart attack right there on the altar?”
He tried to explain that the honors were distributed by the Ritual Committee and that he was sure they had no knowledge of Mr. Rosoff’s condition. “But it’s really nothing serious, Mrs. Rosoff, because hagboh is one of a pair. There’s hagboh and glilloh. Hagboh lifts the Scroll, and glilloh rolls it up and ties it. Your husband has only to say he would prefer the honor of rolling up the Scroll instead of lifting it, and the other man can do the lifting.”
“You don’t know my husband. You think he’ll admit he can’t lift the Scroll after you have announced he will? My big hero would rather take a chance on a heart attack.”
He assured her he would take care of it, and rather than rely on his memory immediately dialed Mortimer Schwarz, president of the congregation, who announced the honors from the pulpit.
“I’m glad you called, Rabbi,” he said after he had taken the message. “I wanted to phone but I hated to disturb you at this time. You heard about the public-address system?”
“Yes, Stanley told me.”
“It isn’t as bad as
he probably said it was. When you talk right into it there’s a low hum, but you can pretty much tune it out by turning down the volume. It’s only when you don’t talk into it directly that you get a kind of howl. So if you can remember to talk into it directly—”
“I doubt if I could, Mr. Schwarz, but on the other hand I don’t think I really need it.”
“I was thinking about tomorrow. The going will be a lot tougher. That’s a full day’s service and on an empty stomach.”
“I’m sure we can manage. The hall has good natural acoustics.”
“Suppose I could get hold of a mechanic to work on it right after our service tonight—”
“Oh, I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” said the rabbi quickly.
“Well, perhaps you’re right. It would cost us an arm and a leg, and people might notice that there was a light on in the temple. You’re sure you don’t mind?”
He returned to the table. “Mortimer Schwarz being solicitous,” he remarked. “The effect of the Yom Kippur spirit, no doubt.”
He was halfway through his roast chicken when the phone rang again. Miriam started for it purposefully, but her husband waved her aside. “It’s probably for me,” he said. “It seems as though I’ve been on the phone all evening talking to people who don’t want to disturb me.”
He lifted the receiver: “Rabbi Small.”
“Oh, Rabbi, how fortunate to find you in. This is Mrs. Drury Linscott. I am not of your faith, but both my husband and I have the highest opinion of your people. As a matter of fact, my husband’s principal assistant, a man in whom he has the highest confidence, is a full-blooded Jew.” She waited for him to be duly grateful.
“I see,” he murmured.
“Now my husband reports that Morton—that’s my husband’s assistant, Morton Zoll—do you know him?”
“I—I don’t think so.”
“A very fine man, and really quite dependable. Well, my husband claims that Morton told him that starting at sundown tonight he is not supposed to eat or drink, not even water, until sunset tomorrow. Now I find that hard to believe, and I am sure that Mr. Linscott must have misunderstood.”
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