Rabbi Gabrielle Commits a Felony

by Roger Herst

  For six months, I carried on in the synagogue and buried myself in my books, trying to ignore what my eyes saw on the streets. But the more I stewed in private, the more I became upset. At night, memories from the war returned to revisit me and I suffered from insomnia. Nightmares of the past became nightmares of the present. I found myself walking through the city slums among peasant peoples who lived like animals for want of housing and food. And when I asked myself why such fundamentals were denied, I could reach only one conclusion.

  I wanted to abandon my apartment in Bogotá and go into the jungle to join the Communist guerrillas. I read their literature, which made sense to me. Their pitiful raids reminded me of the partisan band I joined in the forest southwest of Guozdec. We accomplished nothing of military worth, and succeeded only in saving our own skins. But when I asked myself why I should fight for people with whom I had little in common except suffering, I came up empty handed. How much better to go to Palestine and fight for my own people. Though my heart was in Palestine, it seemed very far away.

  As conflict with my family in Bogotá accelerated, it became clear that I had outlived my welcome. A senior member of the Yoelson clan met me in the synagogue to talk about my future. Two Yoelsons originally from Bogotá had immigrated to the Untied States to carry on the family business in New York City. They had agreed to sponsor me as an immigrant to the States and the local family in Bogotá agreed to pay from my passage. I asked for time to consider the proposition. My clansman made it clear the Bogotá family was not offering me a choice. If I refused, they would cut me off entirely and it was very likely the government would deport me back to Europe.

  So there I was, a refugee once again!

  ***

  Having just retired from 21 years of rabbinical service in Providence, Rhode Island, recently widowed Rabbi Judah Gould was ready to fulfill his dream of making aliyah to Israel after a short stint at Ohav Shalom during Gabby's upcoming sabbatical. He was expected to pass through Washington at the end of a trip somewhere in the South. To inquire if he would be available to cover while she was in California, Gabby left two unanswered phone messages at his home in Providence.

  A dozen years before, Judah Gould and his wife had purchased an apartment in Tel Aviv and leased it on a yearly basis to American academics and clerics spending their sabbaticals in the Holy Land. Upon his retirement from the congregational rabbinate, the B'nai B'rith hired him to run its growing travel business in Israel and Egypt. Gabby had met Judah several times at rabbinical conferences and they had once served together on an American Israel Public Affairs Committee. Both had spoken at the same fund raising dinners for the United Jewish Appeal.

  Chuck interrupted her editing the sixth episode of Mordecai Yoelson's story to announce that Rabbi Judah Gould was calling from Fredericksburg, Virginia, she was pleasantly surprised.

  "What brings you to Virginia, Judah?" she asked genially.

  He laughed in a light, playful manner. "That part of my life I purposely left off my resume. I'm a Civil War buff. I came to Fredericksburg for a few days to study the Battle of Chancellorsville in May 1863 before I tool up to Washington to meet with you and Miles Boronsky."

  She was impressed by his hobby and remarked, "I never knew a rabbi who enjoyed military history."

  "The Civil War was about far more than warfare," he sounded defensive. "It was the encapsulation of the whole human drama. The battles were just the platform on which in the 1860s Americans resolved a wide range of political and social conflicts. What fascinated me is how the actual battles were won and lost by small coincidental events. Sometimes it was a lost communication, a mistaken mark on a map, reinforcements that arrived on station ten minutes too late, or a stubborn commander who insisted upon finishing his breakfast before marching his troops."

  "I hadn't thought of it that way," Gabby confessed. "There are many amateur historians in the congregation who would love to talk with you. I believe we also have a couple of re-enactors. You don't go in for that kind of a thing, do you?"

  "Absolutely, that's the most fun. In uniform, I'm known as Captain Josiah G. Peebody of the Second Illinois."

  "No wonder you accepted a job in Washington, Captain Peebody."

  "That's the attraction, among others. I guess I wanted one last opportunity to wear the blue before I'm off to Israel, where they have real battles and little need for re-enactors."

  Gabby switched subjects. "I called to confirm our meeting tomorrow at lunch and to ask a special favor of you."

  "I'm driving up this evening and looking forward to seeing you again. How can I help?"

  "I wonder if you might be able to stay in Washington for an extra week and cover for me in emergencies. I always take a week off after Chanukah, but my associate, Cici Landau, is pregnant and confined to bed, so I've been doing double duty for months and need a little R&R. Cantor Reuben Blass, who you'll meet, will conduct the services. But I need someone here who can cover for funerals, if necessary."

  "Anybody scheduled to die?" he spoke with the jocularity of a professional who dealt with death often.

  She laughed. "Not that the Almighty has told me about."

  "How long does it take to drive from Washington to Gettysburg?"

  "I'd say about an hour and a half drive north."

  "Humm," he wondered aloud into the phone. "Let's talk about it tomorrow."

  "We'll cover your expenses and I'm certain the synagogue will provide some compensation."

  "Hotel expenses, perhaps, but I don't want any additional compensation for my time."

  "Why not?" she pumped. "Everyone has to eat."

  He let the remark fill a long silence. "I wouldn't want to get paid for visiting battlefields at Gettysburg and Monocacy Run."

  The next day, Gabby and Judah Gould and Miles Boronsky met for lunch at the Woodmont Country Club in nearby Maryland to discuss his service to Ohav Shalom. They covered business matters over salads and fell into discussion about the Civil War. It turned out that Miles had read extensively about the war and possessed a carbine taken from a slain Union lieutenant during the failed assault on Fredericksburg and was later used by a Confederate cavalryman in Nathan Bedford Forest's marauders in Northern Georgia.

  When the subject returned to Ohav Shalom, Gabby introduced the idea of Judah covering for her during a week's holiday. By this time Miles had become aware of the pressure caused by Cici's absence. He sensed Gabby was burning the candle at both ends to keep up. The idea of Judah covering during a period that was historically slow appealed to him. "I presume that Cantor Blass can cover some of your Sabbath duties," Miles asked Gabby.

  "He's bailed me out many times. The only thing he can't do is teach Cici Landau's Sunday morning class on Orthodox practices."

  "Can you postpone that for a week?" asked Miles.

  "It's possible but not practical. I think I know just the right woman to substitute – Carey Sylerman, Norma and Roland Sylerman's daughter."

  Miles screwed up his forehead in confusion, as if to ask what a daughter from an Ohav Shalom family would know about Orthodox practices.

  "She's planning to be married to a yeshiva bochar in Brooklyn."

  "My, we have come a long way, haven't we?" Miles pouted before laughing at his own observation.

  The Sycamore Island Club, where Gabby had agreed to meet with Gideon for a powwow, was a small privately owned island in the Potomac River, just off of Six Mile Marker on the historic Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. Only twenty minutes by car from the White House, it was reached from the canal towpath where mules in the early 1800s hauled barges from villages in the Blue Ridge and Allegany Mountains to the newly established federal city of Washington. Unlike many modern Washington clubs that vie for opulence among the city's elite, the Sycamore Island Club maintained its natural simplicity, its members happy to spend leisure hours picnicking beside the Potomac. Gideon, a great lover of the outdoors and an indefatigable conservationist, served several terms as the club's commodore and
earned the right to bring guests aboard.

  Gabby's first visit to the island occurred during her third year at Ohav Shalom, when Gideon had come to talk about leaving his post at the Department of Agriculture. She never forgot how his presence sitting opposite her desk released a flood in her of adolescent hormones and how she had to keep reminding herself that he was a happily married man. It was an inordinately warm November day when the mercury shot up into the low seventies, a good twenty-five degrees above the seasonal norm. Autumn leaves had disappeared from the neighboring dogwoods and, due to weeks of drought, were swept by the warm wind along the streets in rustling armies. Gideon spoke primarily about his daughter, Cynthia, who had just turned three and his new baby daughter, Torry. She ogled him in silence, under the dubious ruse of a professional consultation.

  "It's too beautiful to spend time indoors," he finally said. "By chance, are you free to walk a bit? We could talk on the C&O towpath and enjoy this afternoon."

  She loved walking by the Potomac and a warm day in November was too good to pass up. In order to return to the synagogue by early afternoon, she followed Gideon in her own car. From a parking lot at the Six Mile Marker, they descended over footbridges spanning the Clara Barton Parkway and the canal to the paralleling towpath. Once there, he led north, pointing out features of the local flora along the riverbank. To her embarrassment, she found herself on the verge of flirting. He appeared to enjoy her company, though he kept her at a comfortable distance by continuously referring to the three females in his family.

  Gideon eventually mentioned that he had come to discuss how his advocacy for irradiating foods attracted enemies. Congressional lobbyists working for the chemical companies that produced preservatives put pressure on congressmen from the farm states. The Assistant Secretary of Agriculture called twice, warning him to cool down his endorsement for radiation. His boss forwarded copies of complaint letters placed into his employment file.

  When they arrived at the hand-operated Sycamore Island Club ferry, he asked if she wanted to see a spot only a few Washingtonians were privileged to enjoy.

  She feared being alone with Gideon on an island, but by the same token, had long wanted to see it. What was off-limits always had an allure.

  The caretaker, a fifty-year-old recluse who lived in the basement of the 1920s clubhouse, operated the ferry. Gabby suspected he knew she was not Gideon's wife. That he discreetly failed even to raise an eyebrow caused her to wonder if other paramours used the island's isolation for their affairs. Gideon took her on a tour, introducing her to a flock of Canada geese feeding on the flood-nourished lawn and suspiciously hissing a reminder for humans not to approach. They talked about Gideon's dream of constructing a pilot plant to demonstrate that irradiating food was not only safe but cost-effective. If he could just break through the barrier of ignorance about radiation, he could erect facilities at major food production sites to irradiate foods as they came off the processing lines.

  Gabby recalled that at the time she wasn't convinced that benefits outweighed the dangers, yet she admired Gideon's pioneering spirit in the face of strong opposition. If he was right about the science, no one in the country was in a better position to be successful than he.

  She felt relieved when, forty-five minutes later, the custodian returned them to the towpath. She had been close to Gideon without making a fool of herself. His lonely battle against societal ignorance made him even more attractive than before.

  At noon on Monday, a brisk January wind ripped down the Potomac, occasionally dislodging droplets of icy rain from the overhanging sycamore branches. Gabby snuggled into her navy pea-jacket and waited for Gideon at the small dock used by the ferry to Sycamore Island. In a paper sack were two vegetarian sandwiches and bottled iced tea. Rushing, Gideon, his hair tousled and looking disoriented, arrived ten minutes late with apologies for his tardiness. A bell alerted the current caretaker – there had been several since her first visit years before – that members were waiting by the towpath to be ferried across. Once they were docked on the island, Gideon and Gabby climbed immediately along a muddy path, saturated by recent rains, to take shelter in the dilapidated clubhouse.

  The wind-chill attacked exposed skin on Gabby's face and wrists. Fortunately, the clubhouse was well supplied with chopped wood near the stone fireplace. Gideon was adept at stacking twigs and kindling wood on the wrought-iron grate, joking how a good fire-maker should limit himself to a single match. Gabby took a dim view of his boasting but refrained from ribbing him when his first match appeared to gutter out. She had to revalue her opinion when a mound of twigs unexpectedly erupted into dancing flames. A blackened kettle hung over the fire for boiling water. Once seated on old-fashioned wooded chairs before a promising fire, Gideon unwrapped the sandwich Gabby brought and examined the contents as though a specimen in his laboratory.

  "Jack Merken from the Nuclear Regulatory Agency asked a number of personal questions about you." Gabby said, no longer able to contain her discomfort over the interview.

  He chewed rapidly the crust of his sandwich to free his mouth for talking. "I can imagine. I don't know Merken personally, but he probably asked about my life."

  "That's right," Gabby shot back. "More specifically, he asked if you had exhibited any abnormal behavior recently. I told him I had no reason to believe anything to the contrary. But when I answered, Gideon, I felt my nose growing like Pinocchio's. I'm not a good liar, even for a good cause. And I might have perjured myself, which isn't exactly my style. And the more I think of it, the angrier I become."

  He paused just an instant too long for credibility. "And what makes you think that you were not forthright with Mr. Merken?"

  "Look Gideon," she snapped. "First, I didn't know he was coming to ask me questions. And second, I could have appealed to confidentiality between a rabbi and a congregant and refused to answer. I thought about it, but decided that wouldn't further your interests. Now I'm having second thoughts, particularly because I don't like prevarication."

  "I'm sorry you feel that way, Gabby. I certainly never intended to make you uncomfortable."

  She was familiar with the cliché and was not appeased by it. "Merken asked me if you had taken out any bank loans. I said that I wasn't aware of any, but that was a clear falsehood."

  "Oh," he remained evasive, pretending to return to his sandwich but not eating.

  Gabby knew that she would not be able to keep Melanie from the conversation, but had held off as long as possible. "Melanie said that the Sun Trust Bank has been sending loan notices to your home."

  He was dismissive with a flick of the head. "Oh, that. Yes, of course, I have taken out a few spot loans to cover our expenses. Cash flow from New Frontiers has been slower than I anticipated."

  "But Melanie didn't think they were commercial loans. The notice slips came to your home, not your office," she said, then immediately deflected into another subject. "When asked by Merken about your family life, I said it was exemplary, but…"

  "What has Melanie said to you?" he suddenly took on a look of exasperation.

  "That things have not been what they used to be."

  "Life changes. What can I say? At each stage of our development, we age a little and that forces changes in any relationship."

  "That's it, Gideon?" Gabby asked exuding exasperation. "That's all you've got to say for yourself and for Melanie?"

  He rose from his chair and picked up a small log for the fire, but at the last moment decided against adding wood to the already healthy pyre. "What do you want me to say?"

  "That I told the truth to Merken. He said he might return for more questions and if he does, I won't be placed in a compromising position again."

  "I wouldn't want you to do that, Gabby. You've been too close to my family and me. I've always cherished your friendship. My girls adore you. I don't know what Melanie's been telling you and I really don't want to know. She talks to women all day about personal matters, yet nobody talks to her. In a
way, I think she's quite isolated emotionally. She doesn't have close confidants."

  Gabby allowed the conversation to drift onto Cynthia and Torry, navigating as they were through the difficult adolescent years.

  After lunch, she rose to throw sandwich wrappers into the fire, then announced that she had to return to the synagogue. It was on the ferry returning to the C&O Canal that she asked about New Frontiers.

  "Frustrating," he answered. "We can't get the licenses necessary to grow our business. There are dozens of food processors that want to use our product, but the government moves with the alacrity of the continental drift. The anti-radiation lobby is well heeled. I know that senators and representatives constantly call the Department of Agriculture and the NRC. They'll tie my hands until they lay me in the ground. We're living off our line of credit, soon to run out. I have Chapter Eleven nightmares."

  "Melanie has asked me to attend the Senate hearings tomorrow. I'm sure you'll do very well."

  "Your ultra-pious friend, Arthur Zuckerman, is out for my ass. He claims to be worried about public health, but the truth is, he's deep into the pocket of the chemical lobby."

  "Is that why the NRC is investigating you?" Until that moment, she had not entertained the thought.

  "It's called the squeeze in local parlance. Everybody knows I'm a proponent for radiation. The medical community won that battle to use radiation in the battle against cancer long ago, but the use of radiation for energy and sterilizing food is dead in the water. The NRC is fishing for an excuse to close down New Frontiers.

  "It's hard for me to believe Arthur Zuckerman groveling in the dirt like that," she added.

  "You'll see for yourself tomorrow."

  Gabby had often observed that people waited until the last moment in a conversation to raise issues that were important to them. She had read how psychiatrists reported that, only when they signaled that a therapy session was about to end, would a patient introduce what was foremost on his mind. It came as no surprise that Gideon waited until she was fishing her purse for car keys, before saying, "I don't know what Melanie has told you about us, but you know there are two sides to every story. Things are usually more complicated than they appear."