Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry

by Harry Kemelman

  “He must be pretty old.”

  “Eighty-four,” said Goralsky proudly.

  “Then maybe he’s right,” suggested the rabbi. “After all, you can’t argue with success. If, at his age, he is well and never sees a doctor, then he’s probably learned in­stinctively how to take care of himself.”

  “Maybe, Rabbi, maybe. Well, thanks anyway for try­ing. I’ll drive you and Mrs. Small to the temple now.”

  “Aren’t you coming to services?”

  “No, I think tonight to be on the safe side I better hang around here.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  A light panel truck bearing the sign Jackson’s Liquor Mart drove up to the Levensons across the street from the Hirsh house. The driver got out and stood at the front door with a small parcel under his arm. He pushed the doorbell and waited. He rang again, his fingers drumming a nervous tattoo on the aluminum cover of his voucher book. Just then he saw Isaac Hirsh leave his house and start for his car. He hailed him and walked over.

  “You live in that house, Mister?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You know”—he peered at the name on the package—“Charles Levenson?”

  “Sure. That’s his house right there.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Suddenly the driver was exasperated. “Look, this is my last delivery today and I’m running late. And tomorrow all my deliveries are on the other side of town. There’s no one home, and I hate to leave this where anyone can get at it, if you know what I mean. Would you mind taking this and giving it to Mr. Levenson when you see him tomorrow?”

  “Why not?”

  “Fine. Sign here.”

  Tweaking the belly of the toy troll suspended from the rearview mirror, Hirsh set it dancing on its elastic. “Wasn’t that a gurgle we heard, Herr Einstein?” The little figure with its wild mop of hair seemed to nod in agree­ment. “This needs looking into, I should say,” and suiting the action to the word, he carefully opened the package and extracted a bottle. “A fifth of vodka no less, and of the right brand.” He held the enclosed card under the dashboard light and read, ‘To Charlie Levenson for a Happy Birthday.’ “Very touching, don’t you think, Ein­stein, old friend? I am strongly tempted to drink a toast to our friend and neighbor Charlie Levenson. But first let us consider. It’s been six months since we’ve had a drink. What’s that you say? Nearer eight months? Well, perhaps you’re right. Either way, it’s a long time between drinks. On the one hand, it’s a shame to spoil the record, but on the other hand, only a lout would refuse to drink good old Charlie’s health. Did I hear you say something? You say I don’t know when to stop once I begin? You’ve got a point there, old friend, but how do we know unless we test ourselves every now and then? After all, we didn’t ask for this; we didn’t go looking for it. We were just minding our business, setting out for the lab, and this comes along, out of the blue, you might say. Now I’d call that an omen. And on this night, particularly. And suppose we do overdo it a little, what’s the harm? Tomorrow is Saturday and we can sleep as late as we like. You say Levenson will miss his bottle? Why, that’s the beauty of the thing, old friend. Charlie’s off to temple and won’t be home till late. Being it’s Yom Kippur he won’t—or he shouldn’t—feel like taking a drink. Then tomorrow before he gets back from services all we have to do is buy another bottle and he’ll never know. I say, we should vote on it. All in favor say Aye. All opposed Nay—The Ayes have it.”

  He unscrewed the cap and took an experimental nip. “Just as I said, Einstein, old friend, it’s the right brand.” He took another drink and then recapped the bottle. “Yes, sir, it seems to be clearing the cobwebs out of the brain. And tonight of all nights we need a clear head.” He set the car in motion.

  Several times along the way he stopped to toast Charlie’s good health. Behind him, he heard the loud blare of an automobile horn. He swung his car to the right; the wheel grated against the road divider and he swung left. Once again there was the blare of a horn, and a car swept around him and hung alongside for a moment as the driver cursed at him.

  “You know what, Einstein? Traffic here on Route 128 is moving just a little too fast for us. The old brain is clear as a bell, but the reflexes are a bit slow. What say we stop for a while? There’s a turnout ahead just a couple of hun­dred yards before we get to the lab where we can let things kind of catch up.”

  He pulled to a stop. He fumbled clumsily with the wrapper of the bottle. Then, in annoyance, he ripped off the wrapping paper and cardboard box and with a lordly gesture threw them out the window. “The big trick is to time yourself. You time yourself, and there’s no problem.” He turned off the motor and headlights. “Better wait half an hour or so, grab a little shut-eye maybe, and then go on to the lab. You mark my words, Einstein, old friend, if past experience is any guide, when I wake up the old brain will be ticking like a regular computer.”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  The Smalls arrived at the temple just in time. The rabbi left Miriam to make her way through the front door where stragglers were still coming in, and hurried to a side door that led to the vestry and the narrow staircase to the enrobing room adjoining the altar. The room had become something of a catchall for old prayer books, florists’ baskets used to decorate the altar, piles of cantorial music, and two coils of BX cable left by the electri­cians when the building was constructed some three years before. The rabbi hung up his topcoat and hat and put on his skullcap and the white robe which was the conservative compromise on the orthodox kittel or grave vestment. Then bracing against his locker—there was no chair—he changed from street shoes to white rubber-soled canvas shoes, a modern compromise on the ancient Mishnah ban against wearing shoes during the day of prayer. Lastly he draped his silk prayer shawl over his shoulders, and after a glance in the mirror opened the door that led to the altar.

  On either side of the Ark were two high-backed red velvet chairs. The two on the far side were occupied by the vice-president and cantor; the two nearest the ante-room were reserved for himself and the president of the congregation, Mortimer Schwarz. He came forward and shook hands with the president, then crossed in front of the Ark to shake hands with the cantor and Ely Kahn, the vice-president. He returned to his chair and looked around at the congregation, nodding to members who happened to catch his eye.

  “You cut it rather fine, Rabbi,” said Schwarz. He was a tall, youngish-looking man of fifty, with thin gray-black hair slicked back as if to emphasize his high forehead. He had a long thin face and a thin, high-bridged nose. His mouth was small and the lips full and round, almost as though pursed or kissing. He was an architect; and something about his dress, the long points of his shirt collar, the thickly knotted tie, suggested some connection with the arts. He was good-looking, even handsome; and his posture and general movements—not studied, but con­trolled—suggested he knew it. With the rabbi he main­tained an armed truce which manifested itself in a kind of jocose teasing that occasionally developed an unpleas­ant edge.

  “For a Hadassah meeting, or a Sisterhood committee meeting,” he went on, “understandable. Ethel tells me that they don’t even expect you to remember. They have an unofficial Rabbi Delivering Committee whose job it is to keep reminding you of the meeting date, and if neces­sary to go fetch you. She thinks it adds spice to the meet­ing: will the rabbi turn up in time or not? It’s a convenient trait, since I suppose it enables you to miss an occasional meeting. But Kol Nidre, Rabbi! I wonder you were able to find a parking place.”

  “Oh, Miriam and I plan to walk home. I’m a little old-fashioned about these things.”

  “You walked? Why didn’t you tell me and I would have arranged to get you a ride?”

  “I did ride. As a matter of fact, I rode in style, in a Lin­coln Continental, I believe. Just as I was leaving the house, Ben Goralsky called and insisted I had to see his father. A matter of life and death, he said. So I couldn’t very well refuse. Ben drove me down afterward.”<
br />
  Schwarz sounded suddenly concerned. “Something’s the matter with the old man? It sounds serious if they sent for you.”

  The rabbi grinned. “He wouldn’t take his medicine.”

  Schwarz frowned his disapproval of the rabbi’s levity. In his relation with the rabbi, humor was a one-way street. “This is serious business. Tell me, is something really wrong?”

  “Any time a man that age gets sick, it’s serious, I suppose. But I think he’ll be all right.” He went on briefly to describe his visit.

  The frown did not lift from the president’s handsome face; if anything, it grew more pronounced. “You mean to say you threatened old man Goralsky with a suicide’s grave, Rabbi? You must have offended him.”

  “I don’t think so. I think he rather enjoyed fencing with me. He could see that I was more than half fooling.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “Why this tremendous interest in Mr. Goralsky? He’s a member, to be sure, but a relatively new one and rather a cantankerous one at that.”

  “Yes, they’re new. When was it they joined? About a year ago, wasn’t it, when the old lady died and they bought the big center lot in the cemetery? But with their kind of money, they’re important. Surely I don’t have to tell you, Rabbi, that when you’re running an organization like this, you need money. And if you don’t have money—and what synagogue does?—the next best thing is to have members who do.”

  “I’ve heard something to that effect. But surely it must be the son, Ben, who has the money.”

  Schwarz’s face brightened and he looked straight out at the congregation. Then he leaned toward the rabbi and said, “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But actually the fa­ther is everything, and the son, at least while the father is alive, is just a messenger boy.”

  “And the father is willing to give and the son is not?”

  “You don’t get the picture, Rabbi.” He gestured with his hands spread as if to frame the picture. “The money, they’re both prepared to give. When you accumulate the kind of money they have, you’re prepared to give some of it away. It’s expected of you. It goes with your status like Continentals and a uniformed chauffeur. Now the old man has been a pious Jew all his life. As you know, he comes to the minyan almost every day when the weather permits. So a man like that, his idea of giving away money is to give it to a temple.

  “But Ben? Ben is a businessman through and through. When a businessman decides that the time has come to give charity, he views it as a business proposition. He is buying kovod, honor. And naturally he wants to get the most for his kovod dollar. If he uses the money to build a chapel—say the Goralsky Memorial Chapel—who will see it? Who will know about it except the folks here in Barnard’s Crossing? But,” he lowered his voice, “suppose he were to donate a laboratory to Brandeis or even to Harvard? The Goralsky Chemical Research Laboratory? Eh? Scientists and scholars from all over the world would get to hear of it.”

  The congregation had quieted as people began to set­tle down, their eyes now on the altar in anticipation. The rabbi glanced at the clock and said he thought they had better begin.

  The two men rose and beckoned the cantor and the vice-president on the other side of the Ark with a nod. The cantor pulled the cord that parted the white velvet curtains in front of the Ark. As he slid back the wooden doors of the Ark to expose the precious Scrolls of the Law, the congregation rose.

  The president, reading from a slip of paper, called the names of half a dozen of the more important members of the congregation to come forward, and they ascended the steps to the altar and the cantor handed each of them a Scroll. When all the Scrolls were received, the men clus­tered around the reading desk facing the congregation and the rabbi recited first in Hebrew and then in English the ancient formula that traditionally introduces the Yom Kippur service: “By the authority of the Court on high, and by the authority of the Court below, by permission of God and by permission of this holy congregation, we hold it lawful to pray with the transgressors.”

  Then the cantor began the mournful yet uplifting chant of the Kol Nidre. Three times he would chant the prayer, and by the time he had finished the sun would have gone down and the Day of Atonement, the Sabbath of Sabbaths, would have begun.

  “How did the public-address system work out?” asked Miriam as they walked home from the service. “Did it put much of a strain on your voice?”

  “Not a bit. I just spoke a little slower.” He chuckled. “But our president was quite upset. Every time he got up to announce the names of those who had honors, they had difficulty hearing him. The Ritual Committee sends out notices indicating the approximate time a man will be called, but we were running a little late and there was some confusion. A Mr. Goldman, who sits well back, didn’t hear his name, so Mr. Schwarz took the next name on the list and that upset the whole schedule. Did you get that bit at the end? When Marvin Brown was called?”

  “Yes, what happened?”

  “Well, I guess he didn’t hear his name, but instead of calling up a substitute as he had been doing all evening, Schwarz kept repeating the name. I suppose because Mar­vin is a special friend of his and he didn’t want him to miss his honor, even though it was just to open the Ark. Finally, after he called Mr. Brown, Mr. Marvin Brown, two or three times, the vice-president came over and opened the Ark himself. Our president was a little an­noyed with him for it.”

  “It seems a small thing to make a fuss about.”

  “Mr. Schwarz evidently didn’t consider it so. As a mat­ter of fact, he kept grousing a good part of the evening about the acoustics. At first I thought it was professional jealousy, but then I got the feeling he had something else in mind. Especially when he said something about ex­pecting us at his house tomorrow after we broke our fast. Did Mrs. Schwarz call you?”

  “This morning. Ethel invited us for dessert and coffee. Isn’t it the usual custom? Don’t we always go to the pres­ident’s house for coffee after Yom Kippur?”

  “I guess we do at that. But somehow, when Mr. Wasserman and even Mr. Becker were president, I didn’t think of it as a custom. I felt they asked us over, as they did on other occasions, because they wanted to see us. But I don’t feel it’s quite the same with Mortimer Schwarz. You know, in your present condition, we could easily duck it.”

  “There’ll be a lot of other people there, David; we won’t have to stay long. Ethel seemed particularly anx­ious for us to come. Maybe they’re just trying to be nice and show they want to let bygones be bygones.”

  The rabbi looked doubtful.

  “You both seemed quite friendly up there on the platform.”

  “Naturally, we’re not going to sit there and glare at each other. On the surface everything is fine. We even joke with each other, although it’s apt to be rather pa­tronizing on his part—the way I would imagine he jokes with his junior draftsman. When I answer in kind, I get the feeling he regards it as an impertinence, although of course he wouldn’t say so.”

  She was troubled. “Aren’t you perhaps imagining a lot of this because he opposed renewing your contract when it came up before the Board?”

  “I don’t think so. There were others who opposed me, and when I was voted my five-year contract they came up to congratulate me. When my five years are up they may oppose me again, but in the meantime, they will remain neutral and work with me. With Schwarz, on the other hand, I have the feeling that if he could get me out tomorrow, he would.”

  “But that’s just the point, David, he can’t. You have a five-year contract that has four more years to go. And his term of office is only one year. You’ll outlast him.”

  “It really isn’t much of a contract, you know,” he said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a service contract, which means they can’t drop me as long as I behave myself. What constitutes proper behavior is up to them to decide, while nothing is said about their behavior. They can do all kinds of things against which I have no r
ecourse. Suppose they decide to make some change in the ritual that I couldn’t possibly live with. What happens then? The only thing I could do would be to resign.”

  “And you think Schwarz might do something like that?”

  “Just to get me out? No. But we could disagree about something, and he might use that as an excuse. And to give him his due, he’d probably feel it was for the good of the congregation.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Just before midnight the call came in. “Barnard’s Cross­ing Police Department,” the man at the desk said. “Sergeant Jeffers. Yes, I see . . . Do you want to give me the name again? . . . H-I-R-S-H, no C . . . Mrs. Isaac Hirsh.” He repeated as he wrote, “Bradford Lane . . . that’s in Colonial Village, isn’t it? . . . Now what time did he leave? . . . Well then, what time did you call the lab? . . . I see . . . Can you give me a description of the car and the license number? . . . Any marks on the car? . . . All right, ma’am, I’ll notify State Police and local police depart­ments to be on the lookout. And I’ll have the cruising car stop by at your house. . . . In a few minutes. Will you put your porch light on, please . . . We’ll do everything we can, ma’am.”

  The patrol car answered his signal right away. “Take this down, Joe. Chevrolet, four-door sedan, light blue, rusty dent on left rear fender. License number 438,972, repeat, 438,972. Isaac Hirsh, 4 Bradford Lane. It’s next to the corner. The porch light will be on. His wife just called in. He works at the Goddard Lab on Route 128. She was out baby-sitting for a neighbor, and when she got back he had gone. Nothing unusual, he’s apt to run down to the lab and work at night. But she called the lab a little while ago and he wasn’t there and hadn’t been there. Stop over and talk to her. See if she’s got a picture of him we can broadcast.”