Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry

by Harry Kemelman

  “How would you know?” she said. “You haven’t gone in years.”

  “Some things you don’t forget, baby.”

  “Well, if you can’t forget it, why don’t you go?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and sat down at the table.

  “I mean it’s like Christmas, isn’t it? I don’t go to church and we never did much back home, but I always feel I’ve got to celebrate Christmas. When Ma and Pa were alive, I always made a point of trying to get back to South Bend.” She began serving his dinner. “It’s like that, isn’t it?”

  He considered. “Yes, for some it’s like that. But for most, it’s like anything religious—a kind of superstition. And I just don’t happen to be superstitious.”

  She sat down opposite him and watched him eat. He spoke between mouthfuls. “There are some Jews who let on to be awfully proud of being Jews, although they had nothing to do with it and it certainly wasn’t of their own choosing. . . . And there are some that are sorry they were born Jews. It’s the same feeling really, just turned inside out.” He waved his spoon at her. “Nothing so much re­sembles a hollow as a swelling. So they do what they can to change it—poor buggers.”

  She took the plate away and brought him another.

  “If they go out of town, they change their names,” he went on. “If they remain in their hometown, it’s not so easy but they work at it. I’m a Jew, and I’m not proud of it and I’m not sorry for it. I don’t try to hide it, but I don’t glory in it either. It’s what I am because it’s what I was born. It’s just a pigeonhole, a category, and you can make categories any way you like—shift them up or down, one side or the other.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, you come from South Bend. Are you proud of it? Do you regret it? You’re a female—”

  “There have been times when I’ve been sorry for that, I can tell you.”

  He nodded. “All right, maybe I’ve been sorry a couple of times. It’s only human.” He grew reflective. “At that, I guess I’ve been lucky. In science it doesn’t matter so much. If I had gone into business or one of the profes­sions like medicine where a lot of doors are closed to you if you’re Jewish, maybe I would have regretted it more and then I might have tried to do something about it—hide it, or gone the other way. But in my field, in math research, it’s no particular liability. In fact, some people even think we’ve got a special knack; it gives us an edge, like an Italian looking for a job with an opera company.”

  “My, aren’t we getting philosophical.”

  “Maybe. Fact is I’m bushed. That can make a man philosophical—just being tired.”

  “Has Sykes been bearing down on you?” she asked, at once sympathetic. “He called you, by the way.”

  “Sykes? When did he call?”

  “About ten or fifteen minutes before you got home. He wanted you to call him back.”

  “All right.”

  “Aren’t you going to call him?”

  “No, I’ll run up later and see him at the lab. That’s probably what he wanted.”

  “But you’re tired,” she protested, “and it’s your holi­day too.”

  “Oh, Sykes knows I don’t go to the synagogue. The old man has been chewing him out so naturally he’s on my tail.”

  “Is something wrong, Ike?” she asked anxiously.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “The usual headaches. You get an idea and it looks good. So you work on it and work on it, and then it turns out sour.”

  “That happens all the time in research, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure, and for the boys in pure research at the univer­sities, it doesn’t make any difference. But with us, where we’re working for industry, and you’ve got to charge the customer, it can become a little sticky. This job was for Goraltronics, and they’re not easy people to work for at any time. Right now, for some reason, they seem jumpier than ever, and it rubs off on everyone else down the line. Well, let the big boys worry, I’m just one of the peasants. I do my work and draw my pay.”

  “Then you’ll be working late?”

  “Maybe a couple of hours. Why?”

  “Peter Dodge called earlier to say he might drop by.”

  “To see me or to see you?”

  She colored. “Oh, Ike—”

  He laughed at her embarrassment. “I’m just kidding, baby. C’mere.”

  She came over and he put his arm around her and nuz­zled her thigh while massaging her buttock with his hand.

  “He’s just friendly because we’re from the same home-town,” she said defensively.

  The phone rang and she left him to answer it, saying over her shoulder, “That’s probably Sykes again wonder­ing why you didn’t call back.”

  But it was the petulant, metallic voice of Liz Marcus. “Hey, Pat, I thought you promised to get here early.” Turning to her husband, she said, “Got to go, dear. Try not to let him keep you there too late.”

  “Right, baby.”

  From the door, she pursed her lips in a token kiss.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  To native Barnard’s Crossers the sprawling Goralsky showplace was always referred to as “the old Northcliffe estate.” It had passed to the Goralskys three years before, and Myron Landis, the local realtor who had negotiated the sale, never tired of telling how the purchase was made. “Cinny Northcliffe—that’s the young one, although she was the last one and was a good sixty or sixty-five at the time—gave me an exclusive in this area on the estate, and I ran an ad in the Boston papers. A hundred-twenty-thousand-dollar proposition, I figured it was worth a fifty-dollar ad. So the next day, in come these two char­acters: an old geezer with a beard, and this feller, his son, maybe fifty years old or so. And the old guy says—he does the talking, and he’s got an accent you can hardly understand him—‘You the agent the Nortcliff place?’

  “So I says, ‘Yes, sir.’

  “So then he says, ‘So how much they asking?’

  “And I say, ‘One hundred and twenty thousand dollars.’

  “So then he gives his son a nod and they go over to the corner of the room and they argue a little. I could hear what they’re saying, but it’s not in English so it don’t do me any good. So then they come back to the desk and the young man writes out a check and he gives it to the old man to sign. And the old man he takes off his glasses and he puts on another pair. And he reads over the check, his head moving from side to side and his lips moving like he’s spelling it out. Then he takes out a foun­tain pen, one of those old-fashioned kind that you fill, and he shakes it a couple of times and then writes his name like he has to draw each letter. Then he hands it to me and it’s a check for a hundred thousand dollars signed by a Moses Goralsky.

  “So I say, ‘This is for a hundred thousand. The price is a hundred and twenty thousand.’ Which is a kind of crazy thing to say, because of course you don’t buy property that way. Without even showing the place or answering questions. To say nothing of arranging financing, a mort­gage, a second mortgage. I mean I never sold property like that before. A check for five thousand, or even a thousand as a binder, or even an option—that would be normal, you understand. So he says, ‘You get in touch with your seller. Say you got a check for a hundred thousand dollars. I can have certify if you want.’ So naturally I got in touch with Miss Northcliffe and she says to go ahead. I told her, ‘Miss Northcliffe, where they offer a hundred I’m sure they’ll go the other twenty.’ And you know what she says? She says, ‘Landis, you’re a damn fool, and you don’t know the first thing about business. Take his offer.’ And that’s how it went.”

  It was a large gray stone mansion, set well back from the street by a few acres of lawn, and encircled by a high iron fence. The rear of the house faced the sea, in fact was part of the sea wall, and as the car approached the front gate Rabbi Small and Miriam could hear the pounding of the surf against the wall and feel the chill ocean air.

  The car circled the driveway and stopped at
the front door. The chauffeur jumped out and opened the door for them. Almost immediately they were joined by Ben Goralsky, a tall, heavy man, swarthy, with bluish jowls and heavy black eyebrows.

  He grasped the rabbi’s hand and wrung it gratefully. “Thank you, Rabbi, thank you. I would have come for you myself but I didn’t like to leave my father.” He turned to the chauffeur. “You can go now, but leave the car here. I’ll drive them back.” To his guests he explained, “All the servants except the housekeeper have tonight and tomor­row off. My father’s idea that they mustn’t work because they are of our household. But I’ll drive you to the temple myself. Don’t worry, you’ll get there in time.”

  “How is he?” asked the rabbi.

  “Not good. The doctor just left about half an hour ago. We had Hamilton Jones. You’ve heard of him, I’m sure. The biggest man in the field—professor at Harvard.”

  “Your father’s conscious?”

  “Oh, sure. Sometimes he dozes off for a little but he’s conscious all right.”

  “Was this something sudden? It seems to me I saw him only recently at the minyan.”

  “That’s right, Tuesday—Tuesday he went to the minyan. Then Wednesday he’s a little out of sorts, and Thursday he runs a little fever and he’s coughing, and then today when it keeps up I figure I better bring in somebody. It’s a strep infection, the doctor says. And you know how it is, he’s an old man—at his age, any little cold it can become serious.”

  They paused in the ornate foyer. “Do you mind wait­ing here, Mrs. Small?” asked Goralsky. “The housekeeper is upstairs—”

  “Certainly, Mr. Goralsky. I’ll be all right. Don’t mind me.”

  “This way, Rabbi.” He led him to the wide marble staircase, which had a thick-piled red carpet running down the middle.

  “When did he ask for me?” the rabbi asked.

  “Oh, he didn’t ask for you, Rabbi. It was my idea.” Suddenly Goralsky seemed embarrassed. “You see, he won’t take his medicine.”

  The rabbi stopped and looked at him incredulously.

  Goralsky too stopped. “You don’t understand. The doctor said he had to take his medicine every four hours—all through the night. We even have to wake him up to give it to him. I told the doctor I didn’t like to wake him up, and he said if I wanted my father to live I’d wake him. They have no heart, these doctors. To him, my father is just a case. This is what I tell you to do—do it or don’t do it, that’s your business.”

  “And you want me to give him his medicine?”

  Goralsky seemed desperate to make the rabbi understand. “The medicine I can give him, or the housekeeper. But he won’t take it because it’s Yom Kippur and it will mean breaking his fast.”

  “But that’s nonsense. The rule doesn’t apply to the sick.”

  “I know, but he’s stubborn. I thought maybe you could convince him. Maybe he’ll take it from you.”

  They had come to the first-floor landing, and now Goralsky led him down a short corridor. “Right here,” he said, and pushed open the door.

  The housekeeper rose when they entered, and Goralsky motioned her to wait outside. The room was in marked contrast to the rest of the house, or that portion the rabbi had been able to see as they went up the stairs. In the center of the room was a large, old-fashioned brass bed, in which, propped up by pillows, the old man lay. A large roll-topped oak desk, scratched and scarred and piled high with papers, stood against the wall, and in front was a mahogany swivel chair of the same vintage; on top of its cracked leatherette cushion was another of well-worn tapestry, long removed from some ancient sofa. There were a couple of straight-backed chairs covered in green plush that the rabbi assumed probably had been part of the Goralsky diningroom furniture.

  “The rabbi has come to see you, Papa,” said Goralsky.

  “I thank him,” said the old man. He was small with a pale, waxen face, and a straggly beard. His dark eyes, sunk deep in bony sockets, were bright with fever. One thin hand picked nervously at the coverlet.

  “How do you feel, Mr. Goralsky?” asked the rabbi.

  “Nasser should feel like this.” He smiled in self-deprecation.

  The rabbi smiled back at him. “So why don’t you take your medicine?”

  The old man shook his head slowly. “On Yom Kippur, Rabbi, I fast.”

  “But the regulation to fast doesn’t apply to medicine. It’s an exception, a special rule.”

  “About special rules, exceptions, Rabbi, I don’t know. What I do, I learned from my father, may he rest in peace. He was not a learned man, but there wasn’t another one in the village in the old country who could touch him for praying. He believed in God like in a father. He didn’t ask questions and he didn’t make exceptions. Once, when I was maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, he was in the house saying his morning prayers when some peasants pushed open the door. They had been drinking and they were looking for trouble. They shouted to my father he should give them some bromphen, brandy. My mother and I, we were frightened, and she hugged me, but my fa­ther didn’t look at them and he didn’t even skip a word in his prayer. One of them came up to him, and my mother screamed, but my father went on praying. Then the oth­ers, they must have got nervous, because they pulled their friend back, and then they left the house.”

  His son obviously had heard the story many times for he made a grimace of impatience, but his father did not notice and went on. “My father worked hard, and he al­ways managed to feed us and clothe us. And with me, it’s the same way. I always obeyed the rules, and God always took care of me. Sometimes I worked harder and sometimes there was trouble, but looking back it was more good than bad. So what I’m told to do, I do, and this must be what God wants because He gave me a good wife who lived till she was full of years, and good sons, and in my old age He even made me rich.”

  “Do you think that the regulations—to pray, to keep the Sabbath, to fast on Yom Kippur—do you think these are good-luck charms?” the rabbi said. “God also gave you a mind to reason with and to use to protect the life He entrusted to your care.”

  The old man shrugged his shoulders.

  “In fact, if you are sick, the regulation specifically states that you must not fast. And it’s not an exception ei­ther. It’s a general principle that is basic to our religion.”

  “So who says I’m sick? A doctor says I’m sick, that makes me sick?”

  “All day he goes on like that,” said Ben admiringly. “A mind like a steel trap.” To his father he said, “Look, Papa, I asked Dr. Bloom who we should get and he tells me Dr. Hamilton Jones is the best there is. So we get Hamilton Jones. He’s not just any doctor; he’s a professor, from Harvard College.”

  “Mr. Goralsky,” said the rabbi earnestly, “man was cre­ated in God’s image. So to disregard the health of the body that was entrusted to our care, God’s image, Mr. Goralsky, this is a serious sin. It is chillul ha-Shem, an af­front to the Almighty.”

  “Look, Rabbi, I’m an old man. For seventy-five years at least—seventy-five years I can give you a guarantee—I fasted on Yom Kippur. So this Yom Kippur you think I’m going to eat?”

  “But medicine is not eating, Mr. Goralsky.”

  “When I take in my mouth and I swallow, by me this is eating.”

  “You can’t beat him,” Ben Goralsky murmured in the rabbi’s ear.

  “Do you realize, Mr. Goralsky,” said the rabbi seriously, “that if, God forbid, you should die because you refused medication, it could be considered suicide.”

  The old man grinned.

  The rabbi realized that the old man was enjoying this, that he was deriving a perverse sort of pleasure from debating with a young rabbi. David Small wanted to smile, but he made one last effort and managed to sound somber and portentous. “Think, Mr. Goralsky. If I should judge you a suicide, you would not receive formal burial. There would be no eulogy over your grave. There would be no public mourning. No Kaddish would be recited in your memory. According to strict i
nterpretation of the Law, you might be buried in a corner off to one side of the ceme­tery—you couldn’t even be placed beside your dear wife—and your children and grandchildren would be shamed—”

  The old man held up a thin, blue-veined hand. “Look, Rabbi, in all my life I never did anybody any harm. I never cheated; I never bore false witness. Fifty years I’m in business for myself and show me one person who can say I took from him a penny. So I’m sure God will take care of me and not let me die tonight.”

  The rabbi couldn’t resist the gambit. “If you are on such good terms with the Almighty, Mr. Goralsky, then why did He let you get sick in the first place?”

  The old man smiled as though his opponent had fallen into the trap he had set. “Such a question! If He didn’t let me get sick, so how could He make me well?”

  “He can stop you like that every time,” said the son.

  “Don’t worry, Rabbi,” said the old man. “I’m not going to die tonight. Benjamin, send in the woman. You better go now; you’ll be late for Kol Nidre.” He closed his eyes in dismissal.

  As the two men walked down the stairs, the rabbi said, “I’m afraid I wasn’t of much help.” He looked at his host curiously. “But I would have thought he would lis­ten to you—”

  “When does a parent ever listen to a child, Rabbi?” asked Goralsky bitterly. “To him, I’m just a boy. He’s proud when other people say nice things about me. Last year, I was written up in Time magazine and he carried the clipping in his wallet and pulled it out and showed it to people whenever my name was mentioned. And if it wasn’t mentioned, he’d bring it up himself: ‘Did you read about my son, Benjamin?’ But when it comes to taking my advice, that’s another story. In matters of business, at least, he listens; but when it’s his own personal health—talk to the wall.”

  “Has he been well all along?”

  “He’s never sick. He doesn’t see a doctor from one year to the next. That’s the trouble: he thinks he is indestruc­tible and when something like this happens, he won’t do anything about it.”