“No, it’s quite true, Mrs. Linscott. We fast from sunset to sunset.”
“Indeed? And he must not do work of any kind during that time?”
“Quite true.”
“Oh!”
The rabbi waited.
“Very well then.” And she hung up.
The rabbi looked quizzically at the instrument and then gently replaced it on its cradle.
“What was that all about?” asked Miriam.
He reported the conversation.
“I’ll answer the phone from now on,” she said. Almost immediately it rang again.
She waved him away and picked up the receiver. She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Cantor Zimbler,” she whispered.
“I better take it.”
The cantor sounded frantic. “Rabbi, have you heard about the public-address system? Stanley called me and I came right over to the temple. I’m calling from there now. I just tested it and it’s terrible. I started singing my Hineni heoni memaas and it sounded like an old-fashioned phonograph with a dull needle. If I turned my head the least bit, it went awooh, awooh, like a fire alarm. What are we going to do, Rabbi?”
The rabbi smiled. He wondered if the cantor had put on his robes and tall white yarmulka to make the test. He was a short fat man with a little black moustache and goatee, who looked like the chef in a spaghetti advertisement. They shared the same enrobing room, and the cantor insisted on affixing a full-length mirror to the door. Only the year before last he had served in an Orthodox congregation, and in applying for his present job he sent along with his résumé one of the posters he used in advertising special concerts. There he had referred to himself as Yossele Zimbler. Since then, he had had new ones printed up in which he called himself the Reverend Joseph Zimbler.
“With a voice like yours. Cantor, I shouldn’t think you’d need a public-address system.”
“You think not, Rabbi?”
“No question of it. Besides, you are Orthodox in outlook, aren’t you?”
“So?”
“So I shouldn’t think you would want to use a public-address system at all. As I understand it, it’s an electric system where the circuit is made and broken by the inflections of your voice.”
“So?”
“So it’s like turning the electric light on and off all through the service.”
“We-el . . .” the cantor obviously was not convinced.
“That’s why many of the Orthodox congregations don’t use it at all during the Sabbath, and of course Yom Kippur is the Sabbath of Sabbaths.”
“That’s true, Rabbi,” said the cantor slowly. Then, “But we used it last Yom Kippur.”
“That’s because we are a Conservative congregation and the Conservative synagogue permits it. But this year the Holy Day comes on the Sabbath, so this year it is the Sabbath of Sabbaths of Sabbaths,” and he rotated his free hand in slow circles, Talmudic fashion, to indicate the ever-increasing sanctity of Sabbath piled on Sabbath. “You could argue that if the rule applies for the Sabbath for the Orthodox synagogue, then it should apply for us Conservatives on Yom Kippur, and on a third-degree Sabbath such as we’re having this year, it ought to apply even to Reform congregations.”
The cantor’s chuckle told him he was won over. The rabbi returned to the table. His wife shook her head with a smile. “That was a terrible pilpul.”
“You’re probably right,” the rabbi said wryly. “However, since pilpul is a fine, hairline distinction the rabbi has used for a couple of thousand years to prove a point his common sense has already told him is right, this serves the purpose—and in the present case I have converted into a blessing something that has to be tolerated anyway. It made him feel pious and devout instead of aggrieved.” He laughed. “They’re like children—so many of these cantors. Maybe that’s why they always call themselves by their diminutives—Yossele, Mottele, Itzekel.”
“Maybe if I call you Dovidel, I can exercise enough authority to keep you at the table until you finish your meal. Remember, there’s a long fast ahead.”
The telephone did not ring again and he was able to drink his coffee in peace. Miriam cleared away and washed the dishes and got dressed. “You’re sure you don’t mind the walk?” he asked solicitously.
“Of course not. The doctor wants me to get plenty of exercise. But let’s start now to avoid any more idiot calls.”
It was half-past six, and although the sun was not due to set for another hour the service started fifteen minutes earlier. It was only a twenty-minute walk to the temple, but tonight it was well to get there early. They were on their way out the door when the telephone rang.
“Let it ring, David.”
“And wonder all evening who it was? Don’t worry, I’ll cut it short.”
“Rabbi?” The voice was low and hoarse and urgent. “This is Ben Goralsky. I’ve got a favor to ask of you. Could you stop at my house before going to the temple? It’s awfully important. It’s my father. He’s very sick.”
“But we’re just leaving to walk to temple and haven’t much time. And your house is not en route.”
“Rabbi, you’ve got to come. It’s a matter of life and death. I’m sending a car for you, and I can drive you to the temple afterwards. It’s all right to ride over, isn’t it? It’s only after services that you don’t want to ride. Don’t worry, you’ll get there the same time you would if you walked.”
“Well . . .”
“He’s already started out. He’ll be over your place in minutes.”
CHAPTER
TWO
Hugh Lanigan, chief of police of Barnard’s Crossing, pulled back his chair and, plumping himself down on its leather seat, swiveled around to face his visitor. He was a stocky man with a pleasant Irish face and snow-white hair. “What can I do for you, Padre?” he said genially.
The man in the visitor’s chair was young—not more than thirty-five. He was tall with broad shoulders and a deep chest. A pillar of neck supported a handsome, craggy face surmounted by blond, curly hair that was just beginning to thin out in two peaks above the forehead. In spite of the clerical collar and black silk rabat, he looked more like a football player than an Anglican minister. And indeed, Peter Dodge had been an All-American guard on the Wabash varsity and played professionally for several seasons before the call to enter the ministry.
“I am Peter Dodge, assistant to Dr. Sturgis at St. Andrew’s,” he said in a deep baritone.
Lanigan nodded.
“I’ve come to lodge a complaint against a couple of your men.”
“Oh? Who are they?”
“I don’t know their names—”
“Badge numbers?”
“I don’t know those either, but they were the two men riding the patrol car Wednesday night.”
Lanigan glanced at a chart on the wall. “That would be Loomis and Derry. They’re both good men. What did they do?”
“There was a fracas of some sort at Bill’s Cafe over near the Salem line—”
“I know where it is.”
“Of course. Well, there was some sort of trouble and Bill, er—the proprietor—asked some of the participants to leave. They did so without argument, but I gather they hung around outside and when customers drove up urged them not to go in. They made nuisances of themselves, but I’m sure there was nothing vicious in it. It was all quite good-natured, without animosity.”
“Even though they were urging customers to stay away?”
“I spoke to the proprietor and he assured me he did not take the matter seriously—”
“Oh, then you weren’t there at the time.”
“No, I came along some time afterward.”
“In the course of your regular evening walk?”
The younger man showed his surprise. “You know that I take a walk every evening? Don’t tell me I’m under police surveillance?”
The chief smiled. “This is a small town, Padre, but we’ve got a lot of territory
to cover and not enough men to do a thorough job. Other towns are the same way. If you want to cover the area with foot patrolmen, you need a lot more men than the town is willing to pay for. And cruising cars or motorcycles miss a lot. So we use a combination of the two, and take up the slack by trying to know things before they happen. You’re new here—couple of months?”
Dodge nodded.
“And I suppose you come from a big city”—he hesitated—“from the Midwest judging by your accent—”
“South Bend.”
“Well, that’s a pretty big city. People who live in cities usually aren’t aware of their police until they actually need them. The police are a service they expect will function when they need them the same way they expect water when they turn on the tap or electricity when they flip a switch. But in small towns like this, police are still people. They’re neighbors and friends and you know them the way you do any other neighbor. It’s part of our job to know what’s going on. We see a man walking along the street after dark, and the patrolman on the beat will make a point of speaking to him.” He looked at the young minister quizzically. “Weren’t you ever approached by a policeman?”
“Oh, shortly after I came, but he only asked if he could help me. I suppose he thought I was looking for a street number.”
“And you explained that you always take a walk after dinner?”
“Oh—”
“You start out from Mrs. Oliphant’s where you board, and you go up Oak Street just beyond Colonial Village, and then you swing down Main Street over to the Salem line, and then along the waterfront and home.”
“So that’s how it’s done?”
“That’s how it’s done.”
“And if instead of this collar, I had been wearing—well, ordinary clothes?”
“Then he would have been just as polite, but probably he would have asked a few more questions. And maybe if you had explained you were just walking to the bus station, he might have suggested you wait for the cruising car to give you a lift.”
“I see.”
“Now my guess is that you came by Bill’s place about half-past eight and found the boys standing around, full of indignation, and asked them—”
“One of them goes to our church. And according to him, and the others agreed, your two policemen were abusive and unnecessarily rough. There were two Negro lads in the group. You men were especially abusive to them.”
It crossed Lanigan’s mind idly that his own pastor, Father O’Shaughnessy, would have referred to them as “colored boys” but doubted Dodge would understand no offense was intended. “Your complaint then is that my men were unnecessarily rough? Did they hit them? Did they use their clubs?”
“I want to make it clear, first of all, that the cruising car was not called; it just happened by.”
“Yeah, we check Bill’s place two or three times a night.”
“Which would indicate that nothing very serious had happened there.”
“All right.”
“I’m mostly concerned about the particular abuse that was meted out to the Negro lads. This isn’t Alabama, I hope.”
“So that’s it. You’re connected with the Civil Rights movement, aren’t you?”
“I certainly am.”
“All right. Now what happened to the colored boys that upset you?”
“Well, for one thing, I protest their having been singled out. They were pushed and one of them fell. Your men were vituperative, and as public servants I don’t think—”
“Maybe that’s the point, Padre, I mean that they are public servants. But they think of themselves as servants of the Barnard’s Crossing public rather than the public in general, and those two boys were not from our town.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we have no colored families in Barnard’s Crossing. And before you go jumping to conclusions, let me assure you that it isn’t because we don’t want them or because we have some sort of gentlemen’s agreement to keep them out. It’s just that real estate prices around here are high and most Negroes can’t afford it.”
He wondered whether it was worthwhile trying to explain to this outlander how things were in Barnard’s Crossing. “You’ve got to understand the situation here, Padre. Ed Loomis, and I guess it must have been Ed, has no prejudice against blacks, or against any other ethnic group. We don’t have much of that kind of thing in this town. The spirit of the town is live and let live, and after you’ve been here a while, you’ll realize it. It was settled by people who left Salem because they didn’t want the theocracy there telling them what they could do and couldn’t do. And for a long time we had neither church nor minister here. They were a rough lot, but they were tolerant, and I’m inclined to believe that both traditions have carried down some to the present. The fact that my people, Irish Catholic, could settle here during colonial times will give you some idea of the spirit of tolerance that prevailed. Those two boys were from Salem, and I suppose there is a kind of prejudice against outsiders, and that would include anyone not born here. They call them foreigners. But I assure you that Ed Loomis meant nothing personal. If it’s wrong for Barnard’s Crossing police to shoo out-of-towners a little more forcefully than they would local youngsters, at least it’s understandable.”
“So you condone it?”
“I don’t condone it, but I understand it.”
“I don’t think it’s enough. Mr. Braddock, the chairman of the Board of Selectmen, is a member of our church and I intend to speak to him about it.”
Lanigan pursed his lips. Then he glanced at the clock on the wall and leaned back in his swivel chair far enough to see down the connecting corridor to the sergeant’s desk. “Will you contact the patrol car, Joe?” he called out. “See that they get right down to the temple to help with the traffic. I spoke to the rabbi, and he said they’d start arriving around half-past six and that traffic would be heaviest between a quarter of and a quarter past seven. They can leave after that and Lem’l can stay on for another half hour. Then they can circle back and pick him up.”
He straightened up in his chair and smiled at his visitor. “You go right ahead and talk to Alf Braddock about Ed, Padre. He knows Ed Loomis pretty well. Ed crews for him during Race Week.”
CHAPTER
THREE
Colonial Village was the first real-estate development in the Chilton area of Barnard’s Crossing. The usual jokes about developments did not apply to Colonial Village; no danger here of the husband returning home and blundering into the wrong house. Although all floor plans were identical, Colonial Village had three different exteriors and no two adjoining houses were built in the same style. There was no confusing the Moderne with its flush door and three small diagonal panes of glass with the Cape Cod, which had a white paneled door flanked by two long narrow windows—or either with the Renaissance, which had a massive-looking door hung on two wrought-iron hinges generously studded with hammered iron nails and a small square window set in a black iron frame. In each case the porch light and railing leading to the front door carried out the motif. And inside too, as the agent went to pains to point out, light fixtures and are hardware matched perfectly. The Cape Cod had glass doorknobs and crystal chandeliers; the Renaissance, hammered copper hardware and square lanterns of pebbled stained glass set in frames of hammered iron; and the Moderne featured polished brass doorknobs and light fixtures composed of a shallow curve of polished brass.
And though the house lots were modest—five thousand square feet for the most part—they afforded privacy while offering the added advantage of a closer relationship between neighbors. Shared barbecue meals were common in Colonial Village during summer, and several times a season there were block parties on Saturday nights.
The older inhabitants of the town tended to be supercilious toward Colonial Village. They came from a background of ugly but solid and spacious Victorian houses, and referred to Colonial Village as “cracker boxes” and joked about the
ir indoor swimming pools in sneering reference to flooded cellars after a rainstorm. This was unfair. Not all Colonial Village cellars were subject to flooding—only those at the lower end of the development.
Nor was it true that only Jews lived in the village. Almost as many non-Jews lived there. Bradford Lane, where Isaac and Patricia Hirsh lived, for example, may have been solidly Jewish at their end of the street, but the other end had a Venuti, an O’Hearne, and Stan Padefsky who was Polish.
Right now, on the eve of Yom Kippur, there was a bustle of activity in many Colonial Village households as families got ready for temple. The Hirsh home, however, was relatively quiet. Patricia Hirsh, a tall, statuesque woman in her thirties, with red hair and freckles and bright blue eyes, had already had her supper and cleared away the dishes. She frequently ate alone since there was no telling when her husband would get home from the lab. Normally she did not mind, but tonight she had promised to baby-sit across the street for Liz Marcus so she could go to the Kol Nidre service. Her husband’s tardiness was annoying, especially since Pat had told him to be sure to get home early. His place was laid in the tiny dining area, set off from the rest of the living room by a two-tier painted bookcase. (Renaissance had a wrought-iron railing, and Moderne a low wall of glass brick.) She glanced at the clock and was considering calling the lab to see if he’d started out when she heard his key in the lock.
In contrast to his attractive young wife, Isaac Hirsh was short, fat, and fifty. He had a fringe of grizzled iron-gray hair around a bald head, and a short bristly moustache under his bulbous, red-veined nose. She bent forward to kiss him perfunctorily, then said, “I told you I was going to baby-sit for Liz Marcus. I promised to be over early.”
“You have plenty of time, baby. They don’t start services until after seven, maybe not till quarter past, just before sundown.”
Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry Page 2
