Monday the Rabbi Took Off

by Harry Kemelman

  Stedman looked up. “Why is it different?” He knew, of course, but he wanted to talk about it.

  “C’mon, Dan. Before, they had nothing on him. He was friendly with an Arab. So what? Lots of American students, and Israelis too, are. He was in the vicinity of the bombing—at the site even—but he had a plausible excuse. No overt action, no official action, had been taken by the police.”

  “They pulled his passport, didn’t they?”

  “No, they didn’t. You know they did, and I know they did, and they know they did, but officially they had just mislaid it and hadn’t got around to sending it back to him.”

  “Sure.”

  “But now they caught him trying to cross the border,” Donahue hurried on. “That’s a crime at any time in any country. But in a country at war, it can be a serious crime. And if it means crossing into enemy territory, it can be damn serious.”

  “But he didn’t know he was crossing the border,” cried Stedman.

  “I told you he said he didn’t know,” Donahue corrected. “His story was that this Abdul had invited him to visit an uncle—some big shindig that would last a few days. So they drove north, presumably to Abdul’s uncle’s place. And when they were almost there, they abandoned the car to take a shortcut. And Roy isn’t too clear as to just why they abandoned the car—it either conked out or Abdul ran it into a ditch. The whole story is a little weak, Dan—you got to admit. I mean, this kid of yours has the normal amount of smarts. He has to have to be in the university at all. But at this point, leaving the car and taking a shortcut through the woods—dammit, driving all that time, he must’ve known that they were damn close to the border.”

  “Why would he have to know? Chances are he’s never been up that way before. And if the other was driving, he could have dozed off.”

  “All right, but he found out damn quick when suddenly there were Israeli soldiers all over the place.” He cocked his head to one side and considered. “That’s a little unusual, their being in force right at that point.”

  “You think it was a trap?”

  “Could be. It wouldn’t surprise me. Anyway, your boy showed some sense for the first time: He stopped and put his hands up. The Arab tried to make a run for it, and they shot him.”

  “They killed him?”

  “No, just through the leg. I guess they wanted him for questioning.”

  “And of course he’ll implicate Roy,” said Stedman bitterly.

  “Not necessarily. Why should he? It wouldn’t make it any easier for him. And if he did, they’d probably discount it. The whole affair is a little funny. It has a Shin Bet flavor. I get the impression that they’re not really concerned about the border crossing. That’s a matter for the border guard, I should think, which comes under the Police Ministry, but they don’t seem to be handling it. The case seems to be directed from Jerusalem. That would suggest to me that they’re really interested in the possible connection with the bombings they’ve had up there. And if they tied your boy in with the bombings, it would be a murder charge. I’m sorry, Dan, but there’s no sense in trying to minimize the situation.”

  “No, no sense at all,” said Stedman dully.

  “The thing to do would be to get a lawyer.”

  “That’s the last thing to do. You know what it would mean to Roy even if a lawyer managed to get him off? An Arab—he’s a hero among his own people, and even the Israelis have some understanding of his reasons. But an American and a Jew! Even if he got off scotfree, what kind of life would he have? I can’t have him stand trial. There must be something you can do.”

  “Be reasonable, Dan. Now a lawyer—”

  Stedman nodded quietly. “If worse comes to worst, of course I’ll get a lawyer. But first—well, that’s why I’m coming to you.”

  Donahue got up and poured himself a drink. “There’s no way I could make a deal if it’s murder. The ambassador himself couldn’t. You can’t go to the government of a sovereign state and say that this man killed one of your nationals but I want you to let him off.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Well, then—”

  “Look, can you find out who’s in charge in Jerusalem?”

  “I guess I could,” Donahue said. “What good would that do?”

  “I don’t know. I could try to see him, maybe convince him. What else can I do?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Stedman rose and headed for the door.

  “Dan.”

  Stedman stopped.

  “Are you sure he didn’t do it?”

  Stedman hesitated. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think of it.” He turned to go and then stopped. “I suppose I don’t really know my son.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-SIX

  Although the monthly Haolam ran articles on science and politics, and regular sections on literature, the arts and fashion trends, it was essentially a picture magazine. It used photographs not only to illustrate its articles, and because they were newsworthy, but also because they were simply dramatic or arresting or bizarre camera shots. So although the excitement engendered by the explosion on Mazel Tov Street had died down, the front cover of Haolam featured a picture of Memavet lying dead on his living-room floor.

  They ran it not to revive interest in the affair; in fact, there was no comment other than a small note of identification and explanation in a box on the masthead page. They ran it because the angle from which the photograph had been taken made a strikingly dramatic shot. The photo showed Memavet lying on his left side, his knees drawn up in the fetal position. The outstretched right arm, flung across the body, clutched a brandy bottle like an Indian club. The eyes were open and staring and from the right temple ran a trickle of blood. What made the picture so unusual was that it had been focused along the line of the bottle, and the whole figure had been fantastically foreshortened as a result. At the bottom of the picture, dead center, was the iridescent arc of the heel of the bottle. Lying along the swelling shoulder of the bottle and pointing directly at the viewer was the tip of the forefinger. And above that, the knuckles of the hand curving around the neck of the bottle, and—the foreshortening having all but eliminated the arm—in the very center of the picture, the upturned face of the dead man, eyes open and staring.

  “Yeah, it’s quite a picture,” Adoumi admitted. “But there’s something about it that bothers me.”

  “I know,” Ish-Kosher agreed. “Me too. No matter how you hold it—away from you or one side or the other—the finger seems to be pointing right at you and his eyes seem to be looking right at you, too. I asked the boys at the photo lab about it and they said it was because the camera was focused right on the tip of his finger. That’s what gives that effect.”

  “I wonder who took it.”

  “They don’t say,” said Ish-Kosher. “It could have been almost anybody—maybe even a tourist. They have their cameras with them all the time. Before we could get the place cordoned off after the explosion, there must have been fifty or a hundred people there on Mazel Tov Street, and half of them had cameras and were snapping away. A fellow gets an unusual shot like this and he might send it to Haolam. They’d pay pretty good for something like this, I’d say. Or it could even have been a press photographer for one of the dailies.”

  “I understand all that, but why did they decide to run it now? Do you suppose they’ve heard something?”

  Ish-Kosher shook his head decisively. “Impossible. The arrest was made only a few days ago, and the copy for this issue of Haolam must have gone to the printer at least a couple of weeks ago.”

  “You mean they couldn’t change the cover at the last minute?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” Ish-Kosher said cautiously. “I don’t know enough about the printing business or the magazine business, but what would they gain?”

  “Maybe they figure we’re about to break the case, and it will give them a journalistic scoop. I don’t like to think that there might be a leak
in our outfit, Chaim.”

  “Believe me, Avner, the only ones in my organization that know about this case, I can trust absolutely. You have nothing to fear from that quarter. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

  “It’d better be.”

  Stedman saw the picture in the magazine rack in the hotel lobby. He bought a copy of the magazine and took it up to his room. He, too, wondered why it should appear at just this time. Was it part of a subtle campaign to revive interest in the matter? Was it intended to arouse public indignation? Would articles on the subject of the explosion begin appearing in the daily press? He thought of going down to the editorial offices of the magazine and making inquiries. Then it occurred to him that his very inquiry might arouse curiosity and start an investigation where none was planned. But if it should be part of a campaign, and he did nothing to scotch it, then….

  He decided that he needed someone to talk to; that he was going around in circles; that he needed a normal, healthy mind to look at the situation calmly and objectively.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Gittel drove up Friday early enough to help Miriam prepare dinner.

  “Really, Gittel, it was kind of you, but I can manage ail right by myself.”

  “Look, Miriam, with me you don’t have to stand on ceremony. I don’t want to interfere. With my experience with hundreds and hundreds of families where there was a daughter-in-law and a mother-in-law living in the same apartment, no one had to tell me that there is no kitchen big enough for two women. My idea was to just sit quietly and keep you company.” But she made suggestions. “An onion in the soup, Miriam. Always cook an onion in the soup. Uri says it makes the soup taste like homemade.” To Miriam’s objection that David did not like onions, she answered, “But an onion—that’s the whole beauty of the soup. And we don’t leave it in. We just cook with it. It gives to the soup a perfume.” And later, at the dinner table, when the rabbi praised the soup, she managed to catch Miriam’s eye and nod an I-told-you-so at her.

  “No, Miriam, the fish you don’t grind it. You chop it. In America I know women grind the fish like they grind the liver because it’s easier that way. I understand that in America they even have a grinder that works by electricity, so all you do is drop it in and press a button. But when you grind, it comes out like a paste and cooks hard.” She rummaged around in the cabinets and found the chopper and a large wooden bowl which she set on her lap, and in spite of her initial protestations, she was soon chopping away rhythmically “to show how you’re supposed to do it.” While she chopped, she talked—of the owner of their apartment, whom she had visited only last week and who was getting along nicely with her sister; of the new supervisor in her department, whom she was not sure she was going to like; of Sarah Adoumi, whom she had stopped off to visit for a few minutes at Hadassah before coming and about whose treatment she had grave doubts—unconsciously accelerating the rhythm of her chopping when she mentioned anything that annoyed her.

  But most of all, she talked of her son, Uri, and then she chopped at a furious pace to express a kind of bewildered disappointment in him. “He is tall like his father, and handsome. That is not just my opinion as a mother. You will see for yourself when he comes. And popular. The girls are all crazy over him. He could have his pick. And he gets involved with a girl from a poor family, Tunisians or Moroccans or something like that, one or the other. They claim there is a difference, but I could never see it. And she’s dark as an Arab, too. And suddenly, he becomes religious because her family is very observant. That kind always are. She even has an exemption from serving in the Army because she’s religious. Uri claims she wanted to go, but her father wouldn’t let her. Maybe. If it’s true, then she shows more respect for her parents than he does for his. He even prays every morning, with phylacteries. How could it happen? He was raised in an enlightened home.”

  “My David prays every morning.”

  “Even now? I thought you said—”

  “He is thinking of changing his profession, not his religion,” said Miriam.

  “Well, a rabbi has to; it’s his business. And now he’s got into the habit, I suppose.” It was plain that she did not regard her nephew’s example as conclusive proof of the validity of the practice. “And now he talks of going into a religious kibbutz when he gets out of the Army. You know what that means? He’ll have a child every year and he’ll be a farmer all his life.”

  “Don’t you approve of kibbutz life, Gittel?”

  “Of course. It is one of our great sociological contributions. In the old days it was necessary to the development of the country. But things are different now.” When Miriam did not seem to understand, she said, “I mean, now that the country is established, it is no longer necessary. He could be a doctor or an engineer or a scientist. He has a fine mind.” And when Miriam still did not seem to understand, she said impatiently, “Is it so strange that a mother should want for her son, not an easier life, but a chance to realize his fullest potential?”

  It seemed to bother Gittel, so Miriam did not pursue the subject but retreated to neutral ground. “Do you think he’ll bring his girl?”

  “I spoke to him on the phone yesterday. He said not. Her father objected; he did not think it proper. That will give you some idea of the kind of upbringing she’s had. They are, after all, Orientals.”

  “Aren’t you anxious to see her?”

  “This pleasure I can wait on.”

  In the early evening the rabbi went to the synagogue, and when he came home after the service, the candles were already lit and the table set with the two braided Sabbath loaves and the wine decanter and glasses beside the rabbi’s plate at the head of the table. The women were puttering in the kitchen with last-minute preparations for the meal, and the rabbi paced up and down the livingroom floor humming a Chassidic melody as they waited for Uri.

  “Will he be in uniform?” Jonathan asked Gittel.

  “What else?”

  “And will he have his gun with him?”

  “He is an officer and so does not carry a gun.”

  “Oh.” Jonathan was so obviously disappointed that she hastily added, “He carries a revolver strapped to his waist. He will probably be wearing it.”

  The minutes stretched out to a quarter of an hour and then half an hour, and Miriam noted that her husband glanced at his watch occasionally as he paced the floor. She was on the point of asking Gittel if perhaps they ought not begin, when they heard the outer door open and close. Then their doorbell rang, and Jonathan ran to open it, and there stood Uri.

  He was all his mother had said he was. He was tall and bronzed and carried himself with assurance. With Jonathan he made an instant hit—the uniform, the boots, the beret, and, above all, the gun in a holster on his hip. With the rabbi he shook hands when he was introduced, but Miriam he kissed heartily on the lips. “A pretty girl you kiss like a pretty girl,” he explained. “You do not mind, David?” With his mother he acted as though he had last seen her only an hour ago. Out of deference to Miriam, he spoke in English, a heavily accented English where the words seemed to be formed deep in the throat.

  “So did you have a good time at the conference last week?” he greeted his mother.

  “To a conference you don’t go for good times,” she said reprovingly.

  They had not kissed or embraced; only the proprietary way in which she had picked some lint off his jacket and then smoothed a wrinkle on the shoulder indicated their relationship.

  “What then? You go to learn something?” Then teasingly, “What can they teach you?” To Miriam he explained, “She sees all her old cronies—from Jerusalem, from Haifa, even from Tel Aviv. Some of them live right in the city with her, and she doesn’t get to see them except at these conferences.”

  Gittel’s manner with him was matter-of-fact, and the pride she had displayed when talking of him to Miriam she now carefully concealed. Her tone, when she spoke to him, was mildly ironic, but when she referred to h
is girl, it became a studied and bitter sarcasm. On his part, his answers were tolerant and good-natured; but sometimes he was stung to momentary anger, and he made a biting response, usually in Hebrew, as though his native language gave him greater scope for emotional expression or perhaps to avoid offending his hostess.

  “Her father didn’t let her come because he thought maybe it wasn’t kosher here?” Gittel asked.

  “Look, I told you that over the phone because I didn’t want to argue with you. But it was my idea for her not to come tonight.”

  “Oh, you didn’t want her to meet me? You are maybe ashamed of your mother?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll meet her. And Miriam and David will meet her, I hope. But not together, at least not the first time. Because you’d say something and then we’d fight. And I don’t want to spoil the Sabbath for David and Miriam. She wanted to come, but I persuaded her not to.”

  “Shall we go to the table?” the rabbi suggested mildly.

  They stood behind their chairs while he intoned the kiddush for which Uri had replaced his beret with a black silk yarmulke. Gittel said nothing, but the twist of her lip showed her disapproval. When they sat down to eat, she said, “That bit of silk is holier than your Army beret? It covers more maybe?”

  He smiled good-naturedly. “To get out of uniform, even just a little bit, makes you feel that you’re really on leave.”

  “This is a reasoning I’m sure your girl understands better than I do. You saw her today, I suppose.”

  “Yeah, I saw Esther,” he said defiantly in Hebrew. “We disengoffed in the park for a while, and then I hitched a ride here. What of it?”

  The rabbi pricked up his ears. “Disengoffed? What is it, to disengoff?”

  Uri laughed. “That’s Hebrew they don’t teach you in the yeshiva, David. It’s Army slang. In Tel Aviv there’s this big, wide street, full of cafés, the Disengoff. The boys go there and just stroll with their girls. So to disengoff is just to walk along with your girl.”

  “With a mother, you understand, David, you don’t disengoff,” said Gittel. Then to her son, “I’m surprised her father didn’t insist you go to shul with him, to the Wall probably.”