“But that’s just the point,” said Marty. “This wasn’t just an ordinary vacation. I ought to know because I’m the guy that arranged it. And I came down ready to talk contract. And because he’d been here almost seven years and hadn’t taken off in all that time, we were ready to give him a sabbatical. But for a sabbatical, you know, you’ve got to have a contract. I mean, you can’t give a guy a year’s salary or half a year’s salary so he can go to Israel and then afterward have him say, ‘So sorry, boys, I’m taking a job with this other congregation.’ And he wouldn’t even discuss it.” Marty could not keep the indignation out of his voice. “Absolutely refused to talk about it. So, okay, he doesn’t want to talk contract, but what are your intentions, Rabbi? How long do you want? You want to go to Israel? You want to get it out of your system? Fine, I can understand that. I guess a rabbi has to go to Israel at least once to say he’s been. You want to take off three weeks or a month even, I guess we could manage all right. But no, he wants an extended leave, three months, maybe more. Now you understand, I’m the treasurer of the temple. I’m the moneyman, and I’m responsible to the whole congregation how I spend the temple’s money. It’s not my money. It’s theirs, the congregation’s, so while I’m handling somebody else’s money I got to be careful. I mean, suppose somebody in the congregation says to me what right have I got to give away the temple’s money when I don’t even know is the rabbi coming back or not. So I have to figure what the congregation can be legitimately asked to stand for. And I come up with a formula. I say, ‘Okay, Rabbi, let’s figure on a vacation basis. You been here six years and little more. All right, practically anybody got a right to two weeks’ vacation a year. So that’s six times two weeks is twelve weeks or three months. I figure anybody that asks, I could justify a three-month paid vacation.’ And what do you suppose the rabbi says to that? He says he’d given the matter some thought, and he’s decided that he shouldn’t be paid while he’s on leave. And to me that means he was practically resigning,” said Drexler triumphantly.
“That’s the way I see it,” Bert Raymond chimed in.
A faraway look came over Rabbi Deutch’s face, and when he spoke, his eyes were focused beyond them as if he were addressing an unseen audience. “The responsibility of the spiritual guidance of a congregation can constitute a great drain on one’s nervous energies, gentlemen. I can remember when I was a young man in my first pulpit, on more than one occasion the thought came to me that for my own peace of mind I should throw the whole business up and go into some other line of endeavor. You may have approached him when he was tired, exhausted, drained. If he meant to resign, would he not have said so?”
“Well, we thought of that,” said Bert Raymond, “and that’s why we didn’t approach you before. But just recently one of the members, V. S. Markevitch, I think you know him—”
“Yes, I know him.”
“Well, V. S. may not be the biggest brain in the world, but he’s no fool either. He’s a successful businessman, which means he’s had experience dealing with people. He saw Rabbi Small in Israel, and he reported that he got the feeling that Rabbi Small wasn’t planning to come back. Maybe he was even thinking of leaving the rabbinate.”
“Still, you can’t tell about these things at second hand—”
“So we’re not, Rabbi,” said Marty Drexler. “If we were sure Rabbi Small was not coming back, we’d have voted on it in the board and then come to you with a definite offer. All we’re asking is would you care to stay on here if the opportunity arose? I mean, if you thought you were going to be through here in a couple of weeks and were flirting with another congregation—”
“No, I haven’t considered—”
“So, why not stay on here?”
“As I said, I’d have to think about it. I’d have to talk it over with Mrs. Deutch and see how she feels about it.”
“Of course,” said Raymond quickly. “By all means, talk it over with Mrs. Deutch. Then a little later we can talk again. Right now, all we’re doing is what you might call hedging our bets.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
In his talks with Roy, whenever the subject turned to politics, Abdul always couched his criticism of the government or of Israeli Jewish society in a teasing, halfhumorous way so that it was hard to tell if he was serious or not.
“Today I went to the bank to cash a check. I stood in a long line, and when I got to the counter, the clerk told me I was in the wrong line. So I stood in another line. When I finally reached the counter, the clerk examined the check and the signature. He looked at the front of the check and then at the back, and then I had to identify myself. Then he looked through a long list to make sure that the one who had given me the check was a depositor and then to match signatures and then to see if there was enough money in his account to cover the check. Then he gave me something to sign and sent me to another clerk. Again I waited in line, and there, too, I had to sign, and only then did I get my money. This is Israeli system. And the check was for twenty lira.”
“Less than six dollars American.”
“That’s right,” said Abdul. “I could have earned more in the time it took me to cash the check.”
“And is it more efficient in Arab banks,” Roy asked.
“No, but with us efficiency is no virtue. You have work split between many people because it is efficient. With us, a job that can be done by one is split between two or three because we feel that they also have to make a living. And the cost is no greater because we do not pay them much, but everyone gets a little. And delay does not bother us because we expect it and are not in a hurry. Usually, it means that some official expects a bribe. We don’t resent it because the poor man gets only a small salary and has a large family to feed and maybe a daughter for whom he has to have a dowry.”
“And what if the man can’t afford the bribe?”
“So perhaps he has a patron who helps him, or he waits and suffers a little. Is it different in America if a man can’t afford a lawyer?”
Roy laughed. And then because he was uneasy and troubled and wanted to allay his fears, he decided to tell Abdul what had happened. Abdul would put the whole matter in proper perspective; he would cite similar cases he had known of police stupidity. “Well, maybe you’re right. But let me tell you what happened to me.” And he told the story from the beginning.
“Memavet?” Abdul interrupted. “You went to see Memavet at his apartment? But that was the place that—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but listen.” When he told what his father had said about returning later that evening, Abdul smiled approvingly.
“He is a smart man, your father. The big trick in bargaining is not to appear interested. Always remember the seller has interest enough for both.”
“Yeah, well—” He went on to tell of his own return to Mazel Tov Street later in the evening. But now Abdul was not smiling.
“This was not very smart of you, Roy,” he said reprovingly. “If your father found out, he would be angry. And what did you hope to gain in any case? You could not buy the car on your own.”
“But my idea was just to look at it. I wasn’t planning to go in to see Memavet. I just figured that after we left, he must’ve called somebody he knew that had a car and told him to bring it around at seven. So it would be parked in front of his house, and I could take a look at it and maybe tip off my old man.”
“But there was no car there.”
“That’s right. So then I got to thinking, here we made an appointment and he was going to have a car to show us. So he hasn’t got a car. So I’d just go in to show him we kept our part of the bargain and he didn’t keep his. Then he’d be obligated, see?”
Abdul shook his head pityingly. “Why would he be obligated? And what good would it do? You think he’d ask less when he did get a car? Believe me, more likely he’d ask more because he’d know you were anxious to buy.”
“Yeah, well, I figured it the other way. Anyway, I didn’t get t
o see him because he was in bed sick, so I left a note in the letterbox saying I had been there.”
Abdul showed concern. “This note, it is probably still there. It must be recovered. There are workmen there now, Arab workmen, perhaps I can arrange—”
“It’s been recovered.”
“Ah, that’s better. For a minute I was worried.”
“By the police. They called me in to question me about it.”
Abdul’s face was impassive. “Go on.”
“Well, this guy I spoke to, he was pretty decent. I told him what happened and he asked me a few questions and that was all. But he’d given some clerk my passport to check, and when the interview was over and I asked for it, they couldn’t find it. I guess the guy, the clerk I mean, had left the office, maybe to go to lunch, and he had it with him. This inspector guy said they’d mail it out to me, but I haven’t got it yet. My old man is worried about it, but you know how older people are—always worrying.”
Abdul rose and paced the floor as Roy watched him. Finally, he stopped and faced his young friend. “Your father is a smart man, Roy. He is worried with reason.”
It was not the reaction he had expected. “Look here, suppose they think they got something on me, they could just tell me straight out they were pulling my passport, couldn’t they? Why would they have to go pussyfooting around and make believe they mislaid it?”
“Pussyfooting? Ah, yes, I think I understand.” Abdul thought for a moment as though planning how best to say it. “You see, Roy, if they take your passport, that is an official act. So you engage a lawyer or you go to the American consulate, or the lawyer goes for you, and they demand that the passport be returned or that you be officially charged so that the case can be tried in court. But they do not have enough evidence to present the case in court; they are engaged in building it up.”
“What do you mean building it up?”
“Even where the person charged is clearly guilty,” Abdul explained, “it is necessary to build up the case. The police cannot go before a judge and say that this man we believe is guilty of such and such a crime and we would like the court to sentence him for so many years. They have to present proof, stey by step. It takes time. And that is a case where the accused is actually guilty. But where he is not guilty, it takes even more time.”
Roy was aghast. “You mean they are trying to frame me?”
“What means frame?”
“That they know I’m innocent but are trying to convict me just the same.”
Abdul shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“But why? I mean why me?”
“Because you were there. The police naturally like to prove they are efficient. How do they do it? They arrest people and have them tried and convicted. It is not done in America?”
“Yeah, I guess it’s done everywhere. But look here, they know who did it. It was done by your people.”
Abdul was suddenly cold, and his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean my people?”
“It was done by the terrorists. They admitted it.”
Abdul relaxed and smiled again. “The trouble is that they all admitted it, all the commando groups. I’m afraid they are apt to do that anytime something happens here in Israel. It is only natural they should want to take the credit. But for just that reason, the Israeli government would like to prove that it was done by someone else, you, for instance. It is not good for the people here, the citizens, to feel that the commandos can penetrate to the heart of the Jewish section. It makes them nervous. They do not sleep well at night. And it means also that the security is not so good as they would like people to believe. So if they can prove that it was done by an individual, it would mean that it was not done by the commandos.”
Roy clasped and unclasped his hands. “But what can I do?”
“Ah, now you see the difference between the way your people run things and the way mine do. If this were an Arab country, then we would seek out the official responsible and we would offer him a bribe. Or, if this might not be possible, we would make contact with some clerk in the office who would perhaps mislay the file. You understand? It would not be difficult—”
“Be realistic,” Roy implored. “What do you think I ought to do?”
“In your position, I would leave the country—no, that is not possible since they have taken away your passport. So it would be good if you could go away somewhere to hide. Go to another city for a while. Go visit someone in Haifa or Tel Aviv.”
“What good would that do? The police could pick me up—”
“Not if they couldn’t find you. Don’t you have some friend you could visit, some friend you could trust? In the meantime, your father can go to the American embassy in Tel Aviv and see what arrangements he could make. He’s an important man, you told me.”
“He’s down there now.”
“Ah, then I am sure he will be able to make arrangements of some sort,” said Abdul soothingly. “I am sure you really have nothing to worry about in that case.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” But the thought that came to him was that Abdul was just soft-soaping him because he knew the situation was grim.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
There was a rectangle on the table of organization of the American embassy staff which bore the name of Michael Donahue, but it was not clear just what his duties and responsibilities were. He had no immediate supervisor but was connected with the upper echelons by a dotted line which indicated some sort of staff function. Mike Donahue was not so high on the chart as to be automatically invited to embassy parties, nor was he so low as to cause notice and comment if he occasionally attended. He was certainly not one of the pretty boys, the urbane youngish men, good-looking, well dressed, with a special talent for being agreeable to the wives and daughters of members of the diplomatic corps in Tel Aviv. On the contrary, he was a thickset middle-aged man, balding, with a round face and a nose that looked as though it might have been flattened in the boxing ring. He usually dressed in wrinkled seersucker suits and a shapeless panama. He was thought by most of the staff to have something to do with publicity since he had a wide acquaintance among journalists, and yet he did not come directly under the Public Relations Unit. The more knowing suspected that he was either CIA or its liaison with the ambassador.
It was to his old friend Mike Donahue that Dan Stedman made application when he went to Tel Aviv. “So they took Roy’s passport and gave him some cock-and-bull story about its having been misplaced and they’d send it to him by mail.”
“And he fell for it?”
“He’s just a kid, Mike. This man at the police, the inspector who interrogated him, had been pleasant all through it—no tough stuff—why wouldn’t he believe him?”
“But all this time—”
“Well, you know how it is. You don’t get it the next day, so you figure the mail service is not so good. Then the next day you get a little anxious, but you figure you’ll wait one more day. Then the next day he did go down to inquire, and no one there seemed to know what he was talking about, and this inspector he had dealt with was not around. If this business of the little trip I’d planned hadn’t come up, chances are he might have waited another few days or a week before telling me about it.”
“The police don’t lose passports,” said Donahue flatly.
“That’s what I thought. The whole business didn’t seem kosher.”
“Obviously not. And I don’t think it’s the sort of thing the police would do, not to an American citizen, especially a student at the university, and especially one whose father was in the media. No, it’s definitely Shin Bet. The police are acting for them.”
“So what do I do?” asked Stedman. “Do I play it straight and go down there and raise hell or go to the American consulate in Jerusalem and have them make a formal demand, or maybe ask them to issue a replacement?”
Donahue shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that. Because if it is the Shin Bet and they don’t wan
t your boy to leave the country for a while, they’ll see to it that he doesn’t leave even if they have to put him in a hospital to keep him here.”
Dan was indignant. “C’mon, Mike, this is a democracy with a code of laws—”
“You c’mon. You’ve been around long enough to know better. What country democratic or otherwise can control the individual actions of its Intelligence? If the Shin Bet wanted your boy around for a few days, even if word came down from Golda herself, do you suppose that would stop a convenient automobile accident? They’d reason that it was for the security of the state and that she didn’t know what was involved. The agent wouldn’t change direction until he got word from his chief.”
“So what do you do about a thing like this?”
“Well, that depends on what the thing is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll spell it out for you, Dan. There was a terrorist bombing in Jerusalem and your kid was there—in a quiet, deserted street where no one would normally go for a stroll in the evening, mind you. Or put it another way: He’s in a place where he would normally have had no business to be unless he had business. And he was not just taking a walk there because it was raining. All right, that’s one item. The second item is that his close friends at school are Arabs—”
Monday the Rabbi Took Off Page 20
