She looked at him curiously. “That’s a funny thing for a rabbi to say.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. But it’s the way I feel.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
The assistant, dark, swarthy, diffident, sidled into the office of his chief, Police Inspector Ish-Kosher. He cleared his throat to attract attention. Ish-Kosher, a mild, square man, very neat in his uniform, looked up and said pleasantly, “Yes, Aaron?”
“There’s a man outside,” he said apologetically. “He is a civilian guard and was on duty in the area, you know up at Alfont Street—”
“He saw something? He knows something? Speak up, man.” The police inspector fingered the little yarmulke that was kept in place by a bobby pin fastened to his thinning hair. It was not so much a sign of piety on his part as of allegiance to his party, which considered religious orthodoxy important. It also concealed the bald spot on top of his head.
“Well….”
Ish-Kosher sighed. His assistant was typical Sephardi, he decided. While very good in the lower ranks, on foot patrol, traffic work, that sort of thing, in the more executive responsibilities they tended to freeze up, to vacillate. But of course, one had to persevere with them and be patient. In a few years there would be lots more of them in the headquarters building; already they were a majority on the force. “Sit down, Aaron,” he said kindly. “Now, what’s the story?”
“Well, I didn’t know whether to bother you with it or not. It’s really nothing, except that the time checks, and we don’t have much of anything else.”
“So bring him in. We’ll talk to him. As you say, we don’t have anything else.”
“There’s two of them, but one does most of the talking.”
“So bring them both in. We don’t have enough chairs?”
Both men were in their forties, and by their dress and general appearance Ish-Kosher assumed they were small businessmen, storekeepers, perhaps. Shmuel, the one who did most of the talking, was a little neater than his friend. His suit was pressed, and his shoes were shined. Moshe also wore a business suit; but he also wore a sweater, and it was spotted. Ish-Kosher thought most likely he worked out of doors; he might be the proprietor of a stall.
“We are on guard duty,” said Shmuel.
“Night duty,” Moshe amended.
“You want to talk, Moshe, or shall I?” Shmuel demanded.
“You talk.”
“All right. We’re on night guard duty,” Shmuel went on, “and it’s maybe a few minutes before eleven. We’re up near the end of Alfont Street. The explosion was at number ninety-eight, so we were a couple of houses down, say at eighty-six. We stopped to light a cigarette—”
“You lit the cigarette,” said Moshe.
“So I lit the cigarette. You’re afraid the inspector is going to report me? So a man came up and he says very nice, very polite, do we know where is Victory Street.”
“He spoke in Hebrew?” asked Ish-Kosher.
“He spoke in Hebrew, but he was not an Israeli. A foreigner, an American, I think.”
“All right, go on.”
“So you know how Victory Street goes, it curves around. So I ask him what number he wants, because if it’s a high number, he’s got to go back the other way, and if it’s a low number, it was in the direction we were walking, down Alfont Street and over to the right.” He gestured with his hand.
“He said number Five,” said Moshe.
“I was just going to tell the inspector,” said Shmuel indignantly.
“All right,” said Ish-Kosher, “so he wanted Victory Street, number Five. So then what happened?”
“Nothing,” said Shmuel triumphantly.
“Nothing happened?” Ish-Kosher stared at the two men and then questioningly at his assistant.
Shmuel held up a hand either in placation or perhaps to indicate that there was more to come. “Then I read in the paper how when the bomb is activated, it takes an hour before it goes off. So the bomb went off just about midnight, and this man approached us just around eleven. So I spoke to my friend Moshe here and—”
“I see. Did you get a good look at him?” asked Ish-Kosher. “Can you describe him?”
“Describe?” He looked uncertainly at Moshe. “He was a big man. Right, Moshe?”
Moshe nodded.
“Maybe six feet Moshe?”
“Six feet sure.”
“What color hair, what color eyes?” asked Ish-Kosher.
“It was dark. It was late at night. You saw his eyes, Moshe?”
Moshe shook his head.
“How old was he?”
“He was a regular man. I mean, not a boy, not a youngster. Maybe fifty. Would you say fifty, Moshe?”
“Fifty sure. Maybe fifty-five even.”
“How was he dressed?”
“In a coat and hat. That’s why I couldn’t tell the color hair. He was wearing a hat.”
“And he was an American? How could you tell? His Hebrew?”
“His Hebrew was good, but it was not the way we talk. It was like he learned it, you know what I mean?”
“All right. So he asked you how to get to Victory Street, and you told him, and he went off?”
“No-o, not exactly. He wanted number Five, and we were going that way, so we walked along and talked.”
“You talked,” said Moshe.
“So I talked. Did I give away some special secrets?”
“What did you talk about?” asked the inspector.
“We talked the way people talk. We talked about the regime, about taxes, about the war—you know, like you talk.”
“And you walked him to where he was going?”
“No, we walked down to the cross street and I told him he should go down there and that would be the the second or third house from the corner.”
“And he walked down the cross street—” Ish-Kosher prompted.
“No.” Shmuel smiled, pleased that he had trapped the inspector in error. “He looked at his watch and said maybe it was too late to go visiting. He thanked us and continued down Alfont Street.”
Ish-Kosher looked quizzically at his assistant when he returned from escorting the two out. “I told you,” said Aaron, “that I didn’t think there was much there, but—”
“But we have nothing else,” said his chief. “And yet, when you come to think about it a little, it is curious. Eleven o’clock—that’s pretty late to be going visiting, just as late as the few minutes later when he decided it was too late. It might be worthwhile making a few inquiries. I don’t expect much, you understand, and probably Adoumi’s way of rounding up a bunch of Arabs and questioning them in the hope that one will get nervous and admit something is the correct one. Still, a man was killed in my area. That he was killed by a bomb is beside the point. It was murder, and I am charged to investigate murders. So, it might be worthwhile going to Victoria, number Five, and inquiring if any of the residents were expecting a visitor that night, quite late.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Sunday the Smalls set out to see the city. They were free for the morning at least, since Jonathan would be kept in school until two, and the school would give him his lunch at noon.
“And don’t worry about hurrying back exactly on time,” said Mrs. Rosen, their neighbor. “He can play with Shaouli until you get home.”
“We want to go to the Old City and the Wall,” said Miriam. “Will we be able to get back in time?”
“Of course.” And she gave them directions on what bus to take to get to the Jaffa Gate. “You’ll see signs directing you to the Wall. It’s not far. You could even walk it. But this first time, better take a bus.”
So they took a bus. No sooner had they paid their fares than the driver swung his vehicle away from the curb and they lurched to their seats. But a car zoomed ahead of the bus, and their driver had to put on his brakes in a hurry. He poked his head out the window and shouted at the driver of the car, “May no harm befall you, but
you are a great fool.” Then fuming and red-faced with indignation, he put his bus in gear again, and they zoomed forward.
They rode for some minutes, the rabbi and Miriam, eagerly watching the scene as it fled past their window. One of the passengers, a middle-aged woman with a couple of string bags full of groceries on the vacant seat beside her and parcels on her capacious lap, pulled the signal cord and then, for fear that the driver had not heard, pulled it again.
He looked up in his rearview mirror and shouted, “It’s all right. I heard you, I heard you. Or do you think you’re playing a musical instrument?” He pulled over to the curb and came to a stop.
The woman gathered up her bags and her parcels and headed for the door. “He acts like his father built the road,” she complained. “And how many times do you pull the cord and he doesn’t stop? And how many times when it’s raining and you’re waiting at the stop, they ride right by?”
“Lady, lady, we’ve all got places to go, and if you don’t hurry, you won’t have time to cook your husband’s dinner before he comes home. You’ll finish the story the next trip.”
“Bus drivers are all the same,” said Miriam.
Her husband smiled. “This one is the same, but with a difference.”
The bus deposited them in front of the Jaffa Gate, and before entering, they turned back to look at the portion of the new city that they had left.
“It’s all so white, David,” Miriam exclaimed.
“It’s built of Jerusalem stone. If I remember rightly, during the British Mandate there was a law requiring it. Maybe there still is. But it’s quite an effect, isn’t it?”
They passed through the gate, crossed a wide-open plaza and, following the other visitors, entered a narrow corridor less than ten feet wide, the main street of the Old City. It was covered over like a tunnel, and on either side were stalls and shops with their Arab proprietors sitting outside on low stools, gesturing the passersby inside.
The street sloped precipitously; every few feet there were two or three steps so that they seemed to be descending constantly deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth. The street was crowded with Arabs, tourists, clerics of various orders, and everywhere children. Side streets led off the main street and, like it, were covered over and lined with shops. Here and there, however, they caught glimpses of squares or courtyards that were obviously residential. As they paused at one corner, a small boy of eleven or twelve approached them. The lad was clean and dressed in Western jacket and trousers.
“Do you need a guide, lady and gentleman? I can direct you anywhere. Do you wish to go to the Western Wall? Are you from America?”
“Yes, we are from America,” said Miriam.
“Perhaps from Chicago? Or Pennsylvania? I have many friends in Chicago and Pennsylvania. Perhaps you know some of them. Dr. Goldstein of Pennsylvania is a very good friend of mine.”
“No, I don’t know Dr. Goldstein of Pennsylvania,” said Miriam, amused in spite of herself.
“Perhaps it is the Via Doloroso you wish to see? I can show it to you and arrange for you to go inside the monastery. Father Benedict is a very good friend of mine.”
Miriam shook her head.
“Perhaps you are interested in buying rugs or jewelry? I can direct you to the best shops. As my friend you will be given the best prices. Or Persian enamels—I know a shop where the proprietor is planning to give up his business and everything is being sold very cheap.”
“We don’t want to buy anything,” said Miriam.
“My brother can get you leather goods at wholesale—”
Miriam shook her head and hurried after her husband, who had marched straight ahead, refusing to be drawn. As they turned a corner, they saw the young man approach someone else.
“You mustn’t encourage them,” said the rabbi, “or you’ll never get rid of them.”
“That one must be rather special. He’ll probably be mayor of the city someday.”
The rabbi grinned. “Not he. He’ll be a merchant the proprietor of a small store like one of these, and sit on a stool in front of his shop smoking his water pipe and drinking cups of coffee all day long. He’ll own half the city, and the mayor will be on his payroll.”
As they penetrated deeper into the ancient city, always descending, they noticed a change in the character of the street. The stores were no longer intended for the tourist trade, but rather for residents of the town. There were shops where radios and clocks were being repaired and others where pots and pans were being mended. There were butcher shops with whole carcasses of sheep hanging by their heels and stores where strange foods were sold. There were shoe repair shops and barbershops. There were small cafés in which radios were turned up so that the eerie, piercing Arab music to which they were tuned could be heard yards away. And the proprietors who sat in front of their shops were no longer smiling and ingratiating; they gazed at the passersby indifferently, knowing it unlikely that they would be interested in their wares.
Once Miriam and David had to flatten themselves against the wall as two donkeys, each loaded with a huge arch of empty wooden fruit boxes, came mincing down the street, urged along by the shouting of a small boy. On another occasion, they had to retreat into a convenient doorway to avoid being jostled by a flock of sheep that were being herded through the narrow corridorlike street.
At one point the street widened unaccountably into a kind of square where some little girls of five or six were playing a street game similar to hopscotch. As soon as they saw the Smalls, they came running up, their grimy little hands held out in supplication, crying, “Money, money.”
“Pay no attention to them,” said the rabbi and shook his head sternly at them. One little girl clutched her belly to indicate hunger, and when even this brought no response, she staggered and fell to the ground. Miriam was tempted to stop; but her husband was striding right along, and she was afraid she might lose sight of him. When she looked back a minute later, she was glad to see that the little girl had picked herself up and was once again playing with the other children.
“Do you suppose she might have been hungry, David?”
“Not that one certainly. They all seem to be well fed, and she’s wearing new shoes.”
There was a sign that directed them to a narrow flight of stairs, and they followed the crowd. When they had mounted, they saw a wide plaza and beyond it, the Wall. A soldier was stationed on either side of the pathway, and the women had to open their handbags for inspection.
The Smalls found themselves on a stone balcony looking down on the scene. A fence at right angles to the Wall separated the women’s portion on the right from the men’s on the left. A couple of dozen women were standing close to the Wall on the women’s side, touching it. On the men’s side, there were many more, most of them praying, rocking and swaying in their ecstasy.
Miriam looked up at him. “Does it do something for you, David?” she asked softly.
He shook his head slowly, considering. “Not the Wall itself. To me, it’s just a wall. Although probably part of the temple, it was probably built by Herod, and he is no great favorite of mine. I find the people praying there affecting, though. Maybe a particular holy place is necessary for a people.”
“Shall we go down?” They separated at the barrier. “I’ll meet you here in about twenty minutes,” he said.
He strolled about and then approached the Wall, not to pray but to stand in silent meditation for a few minutes. Then he began walking again, stopping occasionally to inspect the massive stones, passing his hand over them to feel the texture. He went through the archway that adjoined the Wall where excavation was in progress and inspected a shaft that had been sunk to what was supposed to be the original level of the temple. Then he made his way back to wait for Miriam.
When she rejoined him, he asked, “Well, did you pray?”
“I did. But I won’t tell you about what.”
“I don’t think you should.”
“Well, I won�
��t then. There was a woman who tried to get me to put on a long skirt she had with her. I refused.”
He looked down at her legs. “She was probably just jealous.”
“There were all kinds of little bits of paper stuck in the cracks between the stones on my side.”
“On mine too. I looked at some of them.”
“You didn’t!”
He nodded. “Sure I did. Why not? I put them back afterward.”
“What did they say?”
“Well,” said the rabbi, “one wanted God to cause an earthquake in Egypt. I was tempted not to put that one back, but then I thought God could probably take care of Himself. And there was one that asked for a winning number in the lottery. And one asked to be cured of a sickness.”
Noting his tone of voice, she said, “You don’t approve, do you?”
“No, but it was rather touching. I think at home, I might voice my disapproval but here….”
Miriam put her arm through his. “There is a difference, isn’t there?”
He nodded soberly. “So many different types, and all coming here to seek something. See that tall blond man? He looks just like a fellow I knew in college. He’s a little stockier, but then he would be, I suppose.” He knitted his brows, straining to remember. “Abbot, William—no, Willard Abbot. He came from one of those fashionable, exclusive private schools where all the teachers are very British and they go in for games. The rest of us were largely from city high schools. He was Jewish, but very few knew it. He was totally assimilated.”
“One seems to know so many people here. Everyone looks like someone you know.”
“That’s to be expected, I suppose. There are a number of definite types of characteristic Jewish faces. But that wouldn’t apply to Billy Abbot. In this case the old cliché was true: He didn’t look Jewish.”
Monday the Rabbi Took Off Page 10
