“He was an alcoholic, Rabbi, but as long as he had been with us he was all right. It’s not that they drink much—only that when they start, they can’t stop.”
“And this did not interfere with his work? By the way, what was his work?”
“He was a mathematician in my unit at the Goddard Research and Development Laboratory.”
The rabbi nodded thoughtfully. “Our people don’t run to alcoholism. I am rather surprised that considering this—this affliction, that you hired him.”
“Well, there aren’t too many mathematicians kicking around, at least not of the stature of Isaac Hirsh. It may help to explain our attitude, and perhaps his problem, when I tell you that he was on the original Manhattan Project and worked with Fermi. When we dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, it raised hell with a lot of men there.”
“In that case, he must have been well along in years.”
“Early fifties, I should say. He got his Ph.D from M.I.T. in 1935. I got mine same place in ’43, in case you are wondering.”
“And yet you are the head of the unit and he was your subordinate?”
“Just that I got there first. I went to Goddard as soon as I got my degree.”
“Tell me, what did you call him?”
“Eh? Oh, you mean how did I address him?” He flushed. “Mostly, I’d call him Doctor. You see, he was quite a bit older than I. But sometimes when we were just sitting around talking—what was the expression he used? schmoosing, that’s Yiddish, I guess. He used a lot of Yiddish words from time to time—well, then he would sometimes call me Ronald or Ron, and I’d call him Ike. Most of the time it was Doctor, though, because there are always technicians around and you use first names indiscriminately and after a while the technicians start calling you by your first name and there goes the discipline. At least, that’s our director’s idea. He’s an old army man.”
“I see.” He thought for a moment. “It would help if I could visit Mrs. Hirsh. Would it be all right if I dropped over this afternoon?”
“I’m sure that will be fine.”
“Then perhaps you had better make your arrangements for the cemetery plot. You would have to see the chairman of our Cemetery Committee. If you like, I’ll call Mr. Brown. Do you know him, Marvin Brown, insurance business?”
Sykes shook his head. “If he can see me now I’d go right over there. Would you mind calling me a cab?”
“Of course.” The rabbi started out the door and then hesitated. “Oh, and by the way, if money is a consideration to the widow, and I suppose it is, a plain undecorated pine box is most correct according to our traditions.”
Marvin Brown was a live wire, a go-getter. He was a wiry terrier of a man who knew that time was money and that there were a hundred cents to every dollar. He had long ago learned the supreme lesson of salesmanship, that if you made one sale for every ten calls you could make two sales by making twenty calls. This doctrine he not only preached, he practiced. Over the years, his wife had learned to adjust to his pace. She planned her evening meal for six o’clock, knowing that Marve might not get to it until nine and then he might tell her he had grabbed a bite somewhere and wasn’t hungry.
“How do you stand it, Mitzi?” her friends would ask. “It would drive me up a wall if my husband didn’t get home at a regular time for his meals. And how does he stand it? Marvin’s no youngster, you know. He ought to begin taking it easy.”
And it worried Mitzi every now and then, because Marve was almost forty and it seemed to her he was working harder than ever. He had been a member of the Million Dollar Club for four years running now, and although nearly every year his sales earned him a trip to Florida or Mexico or Puerto Rico, even on his vacations he wouldn’t relax. Every day he played golf and went for a swim, and then he would see people around the hotel and talk business.
But, as Mitzi reflected, when Marve was out, or when he called to say that he would be home late, she was always sure it was insurance business, not monkey business. As a matter of fact, not only insurance business kept him busy; there were also the temple, and the Parent-Teacher Association of which he was vice-president, and the Community Fund of which he was a district leader. When she protested that with all his own work it was foolish of him to take on more, he pointed out it was really all insurance business. It meant that many more contacts, and the insurance business was all a matter of contacts. But she knew better—she knew he did these things because he liked to be active, he liked to race around. And she had to admit it seemed to be good for him.
“Honest,” she would say to her friends, “the children hardly know their father. The only time they can count on seeing him is Sunday morning when he takes them to Sunday school. The rest of the time, they’re usually in bed asleep when he gets home.” But secretly she was pleased. He was her man and he was working night and day to make a good living for her—just how good was attested by the winter trips, her mink stole, and the shiny black Lincoln they had finally worked up to.
Marvin Brown’s success was not due simply to his many contacts. He never went to see a prospective client cold. As he never tired of saying to the salesmen in his office, “Before you go to see your prospect, find out all you can about him.” So when his wife told him that a Dr. Sykes would be calling on him, and that the appointment had been arranged by the rabbi, he immediately phoned to find out what it was all about.
“He’s acting for the widow of Isaac Hirsh who died Friday night,” said the rabbi.
“Did you say Isaac Hirsh? My God, I sold him a policy less than a year ago.”
“Really? A life insurance policy? Do you remember for how much?”
“Not offhand. I think it was about twenty-five thousand dollars, but I could look it up. Why?”
“Tell me, Mr. Brown, did he have any difficulty passing the physical?”
“Not that I know of. That doesn’t mean anything, though. Some of these doctors don’t even touch the patient with a stethoscope. They ask him a few questions and if he looks all right and has a pulse, they pass him. What’s it all about, Rabbi? Was it a heart attack?”
“I think the police ruled it accidental death.”
“Uh-oh—there’s a double indemnity clause for accidental death on most of our policies. It’s only a small additional fee, so we usually write them. I guess the widow is mighty happy—I mean, it’s a lucky thing for her that he decided to take out the policy, although, as I remember it, I didn’t have to do much selling.”
“Well, Dr. Sykes is acting for the widow. Mr. Hirsh was not a member of our temple, but his wife would like him buried in a Jewish cemetery according to Jewish rites. She herself is not Jewish.”
“I get the picture, Rabbi. Don’t worry about a thing. Just leave everything to me.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Nothing Sykes said had prepared the rabbi for Mrs. Hirsh. He found her surprisingly young, in her early thirties, for a man in his fifties. And she was tall. Even though her blue eyes were swollen from weeping he found them attractive, and her red hair was striking. At first he thought she looked flashy. Although she was dressed in black, her silk dress had flounces and lawn sleeves hardly appropriate for mourning—but then he realized she probably had not bought it for the occasion and must be wearing it because she had nothing more suitable. Normally of a gay and happy temperament, this would be reflected in her wardrobe.
He introduced himself.
“Oh, come in, Rabbi. Dr. Sykes phoned to say you were going to drop over. Peter Dodge was here earlier, he said he knows you. And the Lutheran minister, Pastor Kal—Kalt—”
“Pastor Kaltfuess.”
“That’s it, and then there was the Methodist minister and the Unitarian minister, I guess. I sure got a lot of spiritual comfort today.”
“They came to console you.”
“Oh, I know. And are you, too, going to tell me that Ike’s soul is in Heaven or in a better world?”
Because he
was aware that grief can take many forms the rabbi was not offended by her bitter flippancy. “I’m afraid we don’t peddle that kind of merchandise,” he said.
“You mean you don’t believe in life after death, in a Hereafter?”
“We believe that his soul lives on in your memory and in the remembrance of his friends and in his influence on their lives. Of course, if he had children, he would live on in them, too.”
“Well, that’s pretty obvious.”
“It doesn’t make it any the less true.” He paused, reluctant to broach the real reason for his visit. No matter how much experience he had with death, he still had not acquired the professional touch.
But she helped him out. “Dr. Sykes said you wanted to ask me some questions about my husband.”
He nodded gratefully. “Burial is a ritual, Mrs. Hirsh, and I must be sure that your husband was a Jew according to our Law. And since he married out of the faith—”
“Does that make him any less a Jew?”
“Not that in itself, but the circumstances might. Tell me, who officiated at your wedding?”
“We were married by a justice of the peace. Do you want to see the license?”
He smiled. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Impulsively she said, “Forgive me, Rabbi. I’ve been bitchy, haven’t I?”
“A little, and now you’re trying to shock me.”
She smiled. “All right, let’s start again. Ask me any questions at all.”
He settled back in his chair. “All right, why do you want to give him a Jewish burial?”
“Because Ike was a Jew. He never thought of himself as anything else.”
“And yet he never practiced our religion, I understand.”
“Well, he always said there were two ways of being a Jew. You could be one by practicing the religion or just by being born and thinking of yourself as Jew. Was he wrong?”
“No,” said the rabbi cautiously, “but a Jewish funeral is a religious ceremony. Would he have wanted that?”
“I know it can be done by a funeral director, but what connection would he have with Ike? No, this is what he would have wanted. We never discussed it, of course. For himself, he probably wouldn’t have cared. But out of respect for my feelings, I think he would have wanted some kind of ceremony. And what could have any meaning for him except a Jewish ceremony?”
“I see. All right, I’ll perform the service. It’s customary to say a few words at the grave. But I didn’t know your husband. So you’ll have to tell me about him. He was quite a bit older, wasn’t he? Were you happy together?”
“Twenty years, but we were happy.” She thought a moment. “He was good to me. And I was good for him. As for his being so much older—well, I had had enough of the other before I met him. He needed me and I needed him. Yes, I think we had a good marriage.”
The rabbi hesitated and then took the plunge. “I understand his death was due indirectly to his—to his drinking. Didn’t it bother you—his drinking, I mean?”
“That really bugs you people, doesn’t it? Well, it bothered Ike a lot, too. Oh, of course it made things hard sometimes. He lost jobs because of it, and sometimes we had to move and that’s not easy, making new arrangements and finding a new place to live. But it didn’t frighten me the way it might some. He was never ugly when he was drunk, and that’s what counts—more weak and silly like, and would cry like a child. But never ugly and never nasty to me. And it didn’t really bother me. My father was a heavy drinker, and my mother was no teetotaler. So I was kind of used to it. Later on, when he got worse and began to black out—that was frightening, but I was frightened for him because there was no knowing what might happen to him.”
“And did that happen often?”
She shook her head. “The last couple or three years he never touched a drop, except once or twice when he got started and couldn’t stop. I mean, he didn’t drink regularly. He was on the wagon, but whenever he fell off it was all the way. The last time was months and months ago.”
“Except for Friday night.”
“Yes, I forgot about that.” She closed her eyes, and the rabbi was afraid she was going to break down. But she opened her eyes and even managed a smile.
He rose, as if to signify he had finished. Then he thought of something. “Could you tell when one of these spells was coming on?”
She shook her head.
“Can you account for his suddenly starting to drink? Was something bothering him?”
Again she shook her head. “I guess he was always bothered about something. That’s why people drink, I suppose. I would try to comfort him—you know, make him feel I was always there and would always understand.”
“Perhaps you were better for him than he was for you,” suggested the rabbi gently.
“We were good for each other,” she said emphatically. “I told you he was always kind to me. Look, Rabbi, I was no innocent when I met Ike. I had been around. He was the first man I had known who was nice to me with no strings attached. And I was good to him; I took care of him like a mother.”
“And yet he drank.”
“That started before I met him. And I’m not sorry,” she added defiantly, “because that’s how I met him.”
“So?”
“He had holed up at this little hotel where I was working on the cigar counter in the lobby. If he hadn’t been on a bender, how could the likes of me have met a man like him?”
“And you feel you got the best of the bargain?”
“It was the best kind of bargain there is, Rabbi, where both parties feel they’ve got the best of it.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Yeah, this is Ben Goralsky talking. All right, I’ll hold on . . . Hello, hello . . .” At the other end he could hear someone talking, and then he realized the voice was not talking to him but to someone else in the other room at the other end.
“Mr. Goralsky? Ted Stevenson speaking.”
“Oh, hello Ted, nice to hear your voice. Where you calling from?”
“From our offices.”
“On Sunday? Don’t you guys ever stop working?”
“There are no regular hours and no days off for top management in this company, Mr. Goralsky, not when there’s important business to be done. And if you join us, you’ll work the same way.”
Goralsky had an inkling of the purpose of the call, and the implication of the “if” was not lost on him.
“We were going to call you yesterday, as a matter of fact,” Stevenson went on, “but we knew it was your holiday and assumed you would be at your synagogue.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I didn’t go. I was right here all the time. My father took sick, and with a man that age—”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. How is he?”
“He’s all right now, but for a while it was kind of like touch and go.”
“Well, I’m delighted to hear he’s on the mend. Give the old gentleman our regards and best wishes for his recovery.”
“Thanks. He’ll be pleased.”
The voice at the other end shifted gears abruptly. “We have been somewhat disturbed over here, Mr. Goralsky, over the action of your stock in the last week or so.”
“Yeah, well, Ted, you know how it is. Rumors of a merger get out. We tried to keep it mum at this end, and as far as I know no one here has leaked. But when your crew came down, someone may have recognized somebody in your party—I tell you, when it first got back to me, you could have knocked me over with a feather. But I guess that’s the way it is in these things—”
“No, Mr. Goralsky, that’s not the way it is. We know that there always are rumors preceding a merger, and that can affect your stock. But your stock has climbed so precipitously, we did a little investigating. We inquired among some of our good friends in the market down in Boston, and we learned that the reason for the climb was not the rumor of a merger with us but some new process.”
“We
ll, that turned out to be a dud, I guess,” said Ben unhappily.
“So we discovered on further inquiry. Of course these things happen from time to time in any R and D program, but if we thought that it was deliberately engineered for the purpose of increasing the value of your stock preliminary to the merger, we would regard that as—er—sharp practice, and would be forced to reconsider the entire proposition.”
“And I wouldn’t blame you Mr. Stevenson, but I give you my word—”
The other cut him off unceremoniously. “We’re not interested in explanations or excuses. What we want from you is . . .”
When Ben finally hung up, he was dripping with perspiration. For a long time thereafter he sat staring at the telephone.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
The rabbi had intended to go right home after seeing Mrs. Hirsh, but once outside and behind the wheel of his car he found himself driving in the opposite direction, downtown, and presently he was caught in the maze of narrow crooked streets of Old Town. After two turns he got lost and turned up one street and down another in the hope of finding himself on familiar ground; but each time he thought he spotted a house he knew, the road curved another way. Perched on a hill tantalizingly close he could see the town hall which was on familiar territory, yet none of the streets seemed to lead toward it. All the while, he caught kaleidoscopic glimpses of lovely old-fashioned gardens hidden behind charming weather-beaten houses, most of them with a golden eagle over the door lintel, interesting shops of hand-crafters and artists, and most fascinating of all, the ship chandler’s shop with its windows stuffed with fascinating gear—brass compasses, coils of nylon rope, bells, curiously shaped nautical fittings of mysterious function, and, incongruously, a pair of stout rubber boots. Suddenly he found himself on an extremely narrow street which had cars parked on both sides and traffic going in both directions. He slowed down to worm his way through and his car stalled. Horns blared behind him as he twisted the key viciously; the only response was the high-pitched whine of the starting motor. As he pumped the gas pedal in vexation, a voice at his side said, “You’ve probably flooded it, Rabbi.”
Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry Page 8
