“They all do it, all the new temples. I guess they got to. Besides what’s the difference if we join this year or next year?”
“A hundred and thirty bucks’ difference.”
“You want everybody to know you only joined at the last minute because you had to? You want everybody to think we’re cheap?”
“Well, by God, I’d just as soon. I’m getting sick and tired of worrying about whether people think I’m cheap. I put in wall-to-wall broadloom for almost a thousand bucks so people wouldn’t think I was cheap; I swapped the Chevy for a Pontiac so people wouldn’t think I was cheap; and when Henry Bayliss suggests going to the Checkerboard for a bite after the movie, I got to say, Fine—swell idea, because if I mention someplace where you can get a hamburg and coffee for under a buck, that means I’m cheap.”
“So? That’s gracious living. You’re in Barnard’s Crossing now. When in Rome you got to do like the Romans. We got a responsibility to the kids, and that’s why you joined the temple. But now that you’re a member in good standing, you got rights like anybody else. So stop stalling and call the rabbi.”
“But, Liz, he’s just got back from the temple. He’s probably at dinner and must be starved. Besides, there’s more involved than you realize. The bylaws say you got to be a bona fide member to be buried in the cemetery. Now you want me to ask the rabbi to forget the bylaws and make an exception for a friend of mine whose wife isn’t even Jewish. That’s what I mean I’m a new member. To ask a favor like this, you got to be one of the big shots. If it were a relative of mine, that’s one thing. But this guy Hirsh, I hardly knew him. Maybe all the time we’ve been living here I’ve said Hello to him three times. I say we shouldn’t get involved.”
“But we are involved. Patricia Hirsh was right here in this house taking care of your kids while her husband was dying in his garage not a hundred feet away. Besides, didn’t we tell her to have him buried by Jewish law?”
“You did; I didn’t. As a matter of fact, seems to me she was already planning to anyway before we even got there. You just said, the way I remember, you thought it was a wonderful idea and we could talk to the rabbi. And she said that this Dr. Sykes, her husband’s boss, was going to make all the arrangements, he planned to call the rabbi himself. If he’s going to, why do we have to?”
“You keep forgetting I am practically her best friend around here and she was baby-sitting for us. It was all I could do to get you to go over to see her when we heard.”
He had indeed been reluctant. He dreaded the weeping, the depressing conversation he associated with a house of mourning. But it turned out to be not so bad. Except for the Levensons across the street, the others present had all been Gentiles. Dr. Sykes, Hirsh’s section head, seemed to be in charge. At least, he had come to the door and introduced them around. There was someone in a gray suit and Roman collar, the Reverend Peter Dodge, who seemed to know the family because he and Hirsh were both active in the Civil Rights movement. The MacCarthys who lived down the street were just going when they came in. Liz ran over and threw her arms around Mrs. Hirsh, and both of them had been teary for a minute, but then Mrs. Hirsh got control of herself. When the question of a Jewish ceremony came up, Dodge had even got her to smile when after saying he knew Rabbi Small well, they were both in the Ministers’ Association, he added: “But I don’t think it would be proper for me to ask him to officiate at the burial, Pat, not where we’re business competitors, so to speak.” And that’s when Dr. Sykes said he was going to arrange everything.
Once outside, Jordon told his wife he had to hand it to her. “I was afraid we’d be stuck there all morning.”
“When I saw what the situation was, I wasn’t going to hang around,” she answered primly. “This Dodge fellow, Pat knew him from South Bend where she came from. You notice he called her by her first name? He’s not married. You notice how he was looking at her?”
“How was he looking at her?”
“You know, kind of hungry.”
“Oh, Jesus. You dames, all you got on your minds. The guy isn’t even buried yet, and you’re already trying to marry her off.”
As he dialed he rehearsed in his mind what he would say to the rabbi. “Rabbi Small? . . . Oh, Mrs. Small? Am I disturbing your dinner?”
“Is that the rabbi’s wife?” Liz took the instrument from him. “Mrs. Small? This is Liz Marcus. I sat right behind you at the Hadassah meeting, and you asked me about taking off your hat when the film began? . . . Well, a very good friend of ours—she’s not Jewish, but she’s got a real Jewish heart. . . .”
* * *
“The Marcuses,” Miriam explained as she returned to the table. “They’re recent members—”
“Yes, I know. Joe, no, Jordan Marcus?”
“That’s right. They called about an Isaac Hirsh who died last night. As a matter of fact, that’s the second call. A Dr. Sykes called just after I got back from the temple. He wanted to see you about this same Isaac Hirsh. I made an appointment for him for tomorrow. Do we know an Isaac Hirsh?”
“He’s not a member of the congregation. I don’t think we even have an Isaac.” He smiled. “Too bad, because around here, it’s an old Yankee name. Isn’t the Town Clerk Isaac Broadhurst?” He nodded at her middle. “How about Isaac for the coming Small?”
“You know we decided on Jonathan,” she said with determination.
“I know, but it has been bothering me. It suggests David. Now I’m David, and it might give the young man the idea that we were pals, friends, contemporaries—David and Jonathan. I’m afraid the young man might presume.”
“Well, Isaac is out of the question,” she said again. “Your uncle is named Isaac, and your family would never agree to another Isaac Small while he is still living.”
“I suppose not. I’m inclined to believe the Christians are a little smarter than we in the matter of names. When they can’t decide what to call a child, they can always use Junior. And then Second and Third. David Small the Third. Now there’s a name for you!”
“It could be a girl, you know.”
The rabbi appeared to consider. Then he shook his head. “I’m afraid not. My mother is a strong-minded woman. She has decided that the first one will be a boy. I don’t think she’d countenance the change.”
“I’m kind of strong-minded myself, and recently I’ve been thinking that perhaps I’d prefer a girl. I think you’d like a girl, David. Girls are gentle and kind and—”
“Strong-minded.”
“Of course, if it were a girl,” she went on, “I’d have to name her after my Aunt Hetty. I’d have to. Uncle Zachary would never forgive me if I didn’t.”
“And I’d never forgive you if you did. It’s too big a handicap for a girl, and it’s asking too much of a new father. Perhaps if the fifth or sixth child should be a girl—By then I’d be an old hand as a parent and more able to take the name in stride.”
“But Aunt Hetty has been dead barely a year, and there’s no one else who can name a child for her. Certainly Dot is not likely to have any more children. Even if it’s a boy, and we name him Jonathan, I’ll have a hard time explaining to my uncle why we didn’t call him something like Harry or Henry or Herbert.”
“And how would that constitute naming him after your Aunt Hetty?”
“Well, it’s the same initial.”
“Talk about silly superstitions. When we name a child, the father is called up for the Reading of the Torah, and then a blessing is made in the Hebrew name of the child. The Hebrew name is always a combination of the given name and the name of the father. Your aunt’s name was what? Hepzibah? So she was Hepzibah bas Joshua. She was your father’s sister, wasn’t she?”
“His oldest sister.”
“Fine. Now if we named our boy after her, he would have to be something like Hillel—Hillel ben David. Now does Hillel ben David in any way match Hepzibah bas Joshua?”
She was troubled. “But if the baby should be a girl, we could name it a
fter my aunt and call her Harriet or Helen—”
“Or we could call her Sally and say that we were matching the last letter of the name rather than the first.”
She glanced at him doubtfully. “Would that be quite the same?”
“It would certainly be just as sensible.” His face softened. “As you know, every Jewish child has two names: a Hebrew name which is used in the temple and is primarily for religious purposes, such as for naming or being called up to the Reading, or Bar Mitzvah, or marriage; and an English name which is normally the English equivalent, such as Moses for Mosheh. When we go beyond that simple rule, we are apt to do something silly, as when we give children the name Harold or Henry from Zevi because Zevi means deer and the Yiddish-German word for deer is Hirsh. Harold, however, means something entirely different. It means champion. So we call a child a champion when we intended to call him a deer because the Yiddish word for deer begins with an H. Or take this name, Ytschak. The normal English equivalent is Isaac, but a lot of Jews, feeling Isaac sounded too Jewish, used Isidore instead because it had the same initial, not realizing that the only Isidore of any historic significance was the Archbishop of Seville. That’s almost like naming a child Adolph instead of Aaron from the Hebrew Aharon.
“The English name is the one that the child will use for ninety-nine percent of his life. So the obviously intelligent thing to do is to select a name you like that will not be a burden to the child and will be fairly euphonious in conjunction with his surname. Then pick a Hebrew name on the same principle and don’t worry whether the two match or not. So if it’s a girl, you could call her Hepzibah, which is a very pretty name in Hebrew, and that would take care of your Aunt Hetty. And you could use precisely the same name for her English name, or you could call her Ruth or Naomi or any other name you happened to like.”
“Minna Robinson suggested we ought to use a Hebrew name for both—I mean, give the English name the Hebrew pronunciation instead of translating it. It’s rather fashionable now.”
“You mean call him Yonason instead of Jonathan? And how about the surname, Small? In Hebrew that’s koton. There’s an idea—Yonason Cotton, or even Jonathan Cotton. Now there’s a real New England name for you. Say, I wonder if Cotton Mather was originally Little Mather.”
“Look, if you don’t finish so we can get over to the Schwarzes, your name will be neither Small nor Cotton, but Mud. We were due there ten minutes ago.”
CHAPTER
TEN
And now,” said Schwarz, “I want to show you two something.”
There had been a great crush of people when they arrived, but the crowd thinned out until around midnight just the two of them were left. Ethel Schwarz served tea and cookies as they sat around the dining-room table and held a general post-mortem on the High Holy Day services: on the rabbi’s sermons, on the cantor’s singing, on the faulty public-address system, on the disorder during the Reading. And through it all, much to the rabbi’s surprise, Schwarz had been pleasant and cordial; but now, he felt, they had come to the real reason the president insisted they remain after the others had gone.
“This is my study,” Schwarz called over his shoulder as he led them down a hall. “I do a lot of work here.” He stood aside to let his guests enter. The room had no books but against one wall there were a large tilt drafting table and a broad cabinet with drawers for storing blueprints. But what attracted their attention was the table in the center of the room—on which was a pasteboard replica of the temple done to scale. Even the landscaping had been reproduced, the grass made of green fuzzy material, the shrubbery of twigs and wrapped wire, the wall setting off the parking lot a piece of cardboard painted to represent rough fieldstone. There were even a few plaster of Paris manikins to give some idea of the size of the structure.
“It’s lovely,” exclaimed Miriam.
“Seventy hours of work,” said Schwarz. “But you haven’t seen the best part.” He led them around the table. Abutting the rear wall of the temple was a small structure which the rabbi guessed was the chapel Schwarz had mentioned. Slightly lower than the parent building, it had a parabolic dome suggesting the architecture in the Holy Land. A portico in front was supported by a row of columns—twin cylinders, obviously intended to represent Torah Scrolls.
“How do you like it?” asked Schwarz. And without waiting for an answer, he went on, “It’s rich; it’s classic. It’s simple and it’s elegant. How about using the Scrolls as supporting columns? Could anything be more natural, more right? You’ve seen Jewish temples and synagogues using Greek columns, and Byzantine temples and Colonial temples. And all the time we’ve had the Scroll, which couldn’t be more suitable—and beautiful. The cylinder, of course, gives the greatest support with the greatest economy of material. It is naturally graceful. So why do we have to borrow from the Greeks when we have in the Scroll a double cylinder, if you please—the greatest symbol of our religion?
“Next, look at the portico. Have you ever thought of the significance of the portico, Rabbi? In our present building we have a door—that’s all.” His voice was contemptuous. “You’re either in or you’re out. How does that jibe with our services and prayer habits? On the High Holy Days, for example, we’re in and out all day long. And on Friday nights or Saturdays, don’t we stand around after the services and schmoos a while? Now do you see the significance of the portico? It’s in and out. It’s a stopping-off place, a lingering place. It expresses our reluctance to leave the temple when the service is over.”
“It certainly is an—interesting concept,” the rabbi said. “But doesn’t it—well, change the general effect of the original building?”
“You bet it does,” said Schwarz. “But it doesn’t clash, it blends with it. That was part of the problem. If I had a free hand, if I didn’t have to take into account Christian Sorenson’s phony modernism—” he broke off abruptly. “You know, when the temple was first organized and they selected committees I was a little surprised not to be put on the Building Committee. Surprised, and frankly a little annoyed. After all, I was the only member of the congregation who was a practicing architect. Once I even mentioned it casually to Jake Wasserman, and he said he suggested my name but the committee said we’d be putting up a permanent building in the not too distant future, and since I would probably be called on to submit a design, how would it look if I were on the committee that made the final selection? Fair enough. So then they decide to build. I couldn’t very well submit a design, out of the blue, so to speak. After all, I’m not a youngster just out of college—I’m an established architect; I expect to be invited to submit. You’ll hear around that Mort Schwarz is only interested in the buck, but I assure you I didn’t care about this commission for the money in it. I wouldn’t have charged them one red cent beyond my out-of-pocket expenses. But not a whisper, not a murmur. After a while, I swallowed my pride and made a few inquiries and was told the project was still a long way off—they were holding things close to their chests, the gang that was in power the first year. And the next thing I knew, they had engaged Christian Sorenson, a Gentile if you please, to build the temple. You get it? I can’t serve on the Building Committee because I’m an architect and would naturally be called on to submit a design, and then I’m kept from submitting a design.”
Miriam shook her head sympathetically.
“I’m not blaming Jake Wasserman. He’s all right, threw me a bone, as a matter of fact, and put me on the Board because of all the work I’d done for the temple—but that runaway Building Committee . . . Did you ever stop to think, Rabbi, what it means to a Jewish architect? The anti-Semitism that was common, at least up until recently, in medicine, or in banking, or in big business—it was nothing compared to my field, architecture. It’s a little better now, I understand, but do you know what chance a Jew had of getting placed with one of the big firms of architects? Just exactly zero, and it wouldn’t make any difference if he were top man in his class, yes, and was w
illing to start as a draftsman.”
“I had no idea it was that bad,” said Miriam.
“You bet, and it was the time of the Depression, too, which didn’t help any. But you struggle and somehow or other you serve your apprenticeship and you get your experience, and you finally take the plunge and open up your own office. You’re full of ideas and artistic ideals. You want to build something worthwhile, that people will see, that might be written up and pictured in architectural journals. You’re trying to make a reputation. And what do you get? A block of stores, a job of redesigning standard plans for a bunch of cracker boxes in a cheap real-estate development like Colonial Village, a factory, a warehouse. And it can’t be experimental because then your client starts to worry whether the bank will advance the mortgage money, or whether it won’t detract from the price if he should want to sell.”
“But isn’t that true of many people?” the rabbi asked gently. “They have to compromise to make a living.”
“Right, Rabbi. It’s a living and you’re not hungry anymore, but suddenly you’re fifty years old. You’re not a youngster anymore and you’re drawn a lot of plans in your time, and you’re not satisfied. And then your chance comes along. Your own community is going to build a temple. In the trade journals you’ve seen pictures of big new projects, some of them designed by people you went to school with and didn’t think much of. Now at last you’ve got a chance to show what you can do. And what happens? They bring in a phony, and because he’s associated with a well-known firm that has built a couple of churches he gets the job.”
“Well—”
“But now I’m president of the temple, and that makes me chairman ex officio of the Building Committee and I will not be denied.” And he slammed his hand down on the table.
The rabbi was embarrassed by the president’s emotion. “But a building like that, I would imagine would cost a lot of money.”
Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry Page 6
