A Good Place to Come From

by Morley Torgov

  The men of the press gang sat staring at nothing. Someone coughed, a chair scraped against the floor, a spoon rattled inside an empty tea glass.

  Finally, Wiseman rose from his stool. "I better see how my bread is doing," he said wearily, shuffling to the ovens. "Let's play another coupla hands," one of the men said, and he slammed the deck of cards decisively down at the centre of the table.

  "Not me," Rosen said, leaving his chair and putting on his jacket. "I gotta go home. My wife'll kill me."

  The other men watched Rosen depart. They said nothing until they heard the front door of the shop close behind him. "You know," said one, "we had him right in the net, hooked and all."

  "Sometimes," Wiseman said, "you think you've landed something good, and then you look at the end of the line and it's a lousy catfish. And who the hell eats catfish?"

  The old baker turned to the man with the alphabetical list of prospects.

  "What comes after R?"

  The House on the Rock

  "Should we build a synagogue or should we not?"

  The proponents of the plan—a handful of shrewd oldtimers—sensed that there would be strong pockets of resistance centring around the crucial issue of funds. Though the time was early 1942, the bad breath of the Depression still lingered in the town, and the average Jewish storekeeper hesitated to answer the knock on his door at night for fear he would see a wolf standing there. True enough, a growing wartime economy brought with it the beginnings of prosperity, but the small merchant, accustomed to the hand-tomouth existence of the thirties, could not be expected to shake off almost overnight the habits of a decade of anxieties. Those who favoured the building of a synagogue therefore took it upon themselves to inspire a little confidence by laying on a banquet which every Jewish man, woman and child in the community was pressed into attending. Delicatessen was imported for the occasion from Toronto, arriving packed with dry ice in large cardboard cartons which—though tightly sealed—yielded such a strong aroma that the train bearing them was that day named "The Garlic Special" by the committee assigned to transport the cargo from the station to the Foresters Hall.

  The crowd, rubbing their hands hungrily after trudging through the cold winter night to the Hall, sat at long tables decked with white bed sheets. In the centre of the tables, like sentries posted along a boundary-line, stood bottles of schnapps waiting stiffly at attention to be called up for service. At the signal to begin, there followed a frenzy of platter-passing, bottle-pouring, glass-spilling and mustard-spattering that ended a half-hour later with empty plates and sighs of satisfaction. Seated at the head table, the organizers looked about and saw that all was going well. The time to strike was now when even those who were most difficult to convince would be settling back in their chairs in a state of semi-euphoria, watching the smoke from their cigarettes ascend to the ceiling of the Foresters Hall.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, may I have your attention, please ..." The speaker, who had risen at the centre of the head table, stood waiting for silence, his hands deep in his trousers pockets—his characteristic stance whenever addressing a public gathering. If any other man in the Jewish community rose to speak in this fashion, people snickered, "You see, he's guarding his balls." But when this man—whose nickname was "Der Reicher" (The Rich One)—rose to speak, hands in pockets, people whispered almost reverently, "You see, he's guarding his cash." It wasn't often that Der Reicher undertook to champion social causes. Indeed, he was usually notable for his absences from community meetings, so totally occupied was he with his own business affairs. The man's entrepreneurship was almost limitless: he owned the largest clothing store in town, knew every Indian fur trapper from the Soo to James Bay, memorized the bid and ask for every stock listed on the Toronto market, and could read a profit-and-loss statement faster than most men could read a headline in Der Tag. He had even been to Florida once or twice. And now, here he was, not only present in body, but the keynote speaker. Like fire licking its way through underbrush, word was passed down along the tables. "Shah!"

  Never a person noted for wasting time on niceties, Der Reicher plunged quickly arid directly into the tenderest part of every adult heart. "It is not so much for us as for the children . . ." There was scarcely a man or woman in the audience who hadn't cut off his or her right arm "for the children." Fathers had mortgaged businesses and mothers had pawned wedding rings to put their sons and daughters through college. Winter and summer, debt had hung on their shoulders like a heavy mantle—all "for the children.'' The combination of persuasive forces—the smoked meat, the schnapps, Der Reicher diverting his attention from his warehouses and his coffers for a whole evening, and the appeal itself—"It is not so much for us as for the children"—repeated again and again throughout the opening speech was enough to overwhelm the stubbornest opponents. The applause when he sat down told Der Reicher and his fellow occupants of the head table that they had succeeded. There would be a synagogue in Sault Ste. Marie.

  So thoroughly had the organizers done their homework that a slate of three trustees (all of whom had agreed in advance to serve) was quickly accepted by the general body without even a hint of contest from the floor.

  The oldest of the three, Mr. Crandel, was well beyond three score and ten years. Every morning as he stared at himself shaving in the mirror, he saw the face of death staring back at him, its eyes heavy-lidded and colourless above the layers of white lather. And he did not like what he saw, for although he was old, and was the proprietor of several flourishing businesses in the town, his work on earth was far from accomplished and he was not yet ready to close his eyes forever. A number of his sons and daughters had married Gentiles and wandered vast distances from his world, and though they had brought no shame upon him or upon themselves, he felt in his heart that he had somehow sinned in allowing this to happen, and that only by performing one last great deed could he atone. He prayed, therefore, each morning as he saw himself in the mirror, that the colourless eyes would remain open another day, another month, another year, so that he could build the synagogue. Before long he thought about the task almost every moment each day: at his meals, at his work, as he lay in bed at night probing the dark sheets for a comfortable place to lay his bones, bones that were once young and powerful and now were old and restless. It became his reason to live. Long a strong advocate for the building of a synagogue, Crandel came to be regarded in the Jewish community as a holy man. And since he knew that he was so regarded, he doubled and redoubled his zeal to see the project come to life. Nobody and nothing would stand in the way of his determination.

  The second of the three, Mr. Dreyfus, was about fifteen years younger than Crandel. Being inclined to revere men who possessed many years and much wealth, Dreyfus looked up to Crandel who was both older and richer than he. Unlike Crandel, who felt that he had much to atone for, Dreyfus felt that his books of account in heaven were quite neatly balanced. In all things he did good for others. He took pleasure in providing comforts for his wife and sons, and gave them love which they returned amply. He was respectful to his elders and affectionate toward the young. He was an attentive host, a giver to charity, and dealt justly with his creditors and his customers. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw a picture of a life well lived. But he was driven by a constant anxiety to have everyone recognize and appreciate his goodness. And so, whenever a position of honour became available, he seized the opportunity because even the best of men crave and indeed thrive upon public approval. This need for approval led him to be a fencesitter. Whenever controversy arose—as so often it did—one could not always be sure what stand, if any, Dreyfus would take until the adversaries had exhausted both their arguments and themselves. In fairness, however, it must be said that this trait made him particularly useful; whenever factions seemed hopelessly polarized, Dreyfus was able to play the role of an intermediary and peacemaker. This talent, too, nourished his image as a good man and a man of eternal goodwill. Thus, because Dreyfus was a
good man, he maintained neutrality throughout most issues. And because he maintained neutrality, he was considered a good man by everyone.

  By everyone, that is, except my father, who was the third and youngest member of the building committee. My father was a fiery flagwaver, the flag of course bearing his favourite colours-black and white; gray was one colour that was seldom painted on his standards. He demanded total loyalty to himself and to any cause he espoused, and anything less than total loyalty he considered treason. Equipped with an intuition that neither slept nor slumbered but functioned overtime, he would size up any matter quickly, form an opinion based on his initial impressions, and adhere to that opinion unswervingly from beginning to end. Uncomfortable in his role as the junior member of the triumvirate, he resented the deference with which Crandel was treated by the congregation, and regarded Dreyfus with a certain wariness. Since my father had some experience in building, and was renowned for "looking after things"—particularly property—he was regarded by the congregation as eminently suited to be one of the overseers of the synagogue project. He could out-bargain and out-shout the toughest carpenter, plumber or electrician in town. Since he could carry off scenes with tradesmen with such authority, he was regarded by others as well as by himself as an expert on all matters of construction and maintenance. This made him out-bargain and out-shout the carpenters and plumbers and electricians all the more. By this point in time, he was quite convinced that, given the challenge of erecting the Empire State Building, he could have the job done from start to finish in six days, leaving the seventh day free to rest, catch up on the week's news in his Jewish papers, and smoke three packages of cigarettes.

  Standing now beside Der Reicher, the newly-appointed trustees acknowledged the assembly's applause and shook hands among themselves, Crandel on one side, my father on the other, Dreyfus between them, like two wrestlers and a referee making ready to enter the ring.

  Der Reicher spoke again, "Gentlemen, our hearts are with you. May all your many efforts in the future be crowned with success and may God go with you."

  But God did not go with them. Instead, He chose at that precise moment to quit the Foresters Hall and go on a very long vacation. Presumably He slipped through an open transom concealed in a cloud of cigarette smoke. For God knew something that the people of the congregation—even the wisest of them—did not know: whenever three men, moved by a noble vision, form a committee to lay a brick, they inevitably mislay the noble vision before the mortar has hardened.

  From the very outset there were conflicts.

  There was sharp conflict over the choice of the site. One trustee said it should be in the east end of town to reflect the gradual movement by the Jews to the more desirable residential areas there. The other, representing the conservatives, charged that this was an attempt to appease The Four Hundred—a clique who considered themselves rather chic and sophisticated and were having less and less social intercourse with the old-country types. The former retorted that this was nonsense and that locating the synagogue in the east end of town was simply good taste. The latter contended that the deciding factor should be convenience and not taste; therefore, the site should be as central as possible to the Jewish places of business downtown. This way, a shopkeeper could commune with his customers right up until the six o'clock closing time, and be in his pew communing with God by 6:15, all without raising so much as a bead of sweat on his brow. And when it came right down to that, the latter pointed out, were not the two forms of business—God's and man's—so inextricably bound together that one could not flourish except in close proximity to the other? If Dreyfus favoured one part of town over the other, he chose not to reveal his preference and since the issue remained in deadlock it was laid before the general body for a decision. The conservative position prevailed. Land was selected on the west side of Bruce Street, a plot without so much as a square foot of natural charm, situated next door to a welding shop and two addresses removed from a gas station. Looking eastward from this site, one saw not Jerusalem but a dingy confectionery store across the street, its front stoop littered with discarded gum wrappers and Popsicle sticks. On the other hand, it was convenient. Queen Street—the street of daily bread—was only a block away. It was a victory for practicality, and a defeat for aesthetics. The small-scale renaissance that could have taken wing instead plummetted to the earth, landing like a stricken bird right there on the west side of Bruce Street, next to the welding shop and across the street from the confectionery.

  There was conflict next over the design concept of the building. "It should have a fiat roof with the entrance at one side so people can sit facing east," said one trustee. The other trustee disagreed. "A fiat roof and a side entrance looks like a union hall, not a synagogue. No, it should have a pitched roof with windows that come to an arch at the top, and a centre entrance." "Then it'll look just like the United Church," argued the first. Dreyfus again found himself in the middle. "Why not a fiat roof and windows with arches, or a pitched roof with straight windows." "And what about the entrance," challenged my father, "where would you put that, in Sudbury?" Dreyfus thought a moment. "Why don't we hire an architect and settle it that way?" For once Crandel and my father saw as one. An architect was simply out of the question. The only architect in town was a Scotsman. What would he know about designing a synagogue? "There are Jewish architects in Toronto then ..." Dreyfus said gingerly. The other two were against that idea as well. Grandel said flatly, "Delicatessen we can afford to import from Toronto. Architects we can't." And that was that.

  Finally, the committee hired a draftsman to try to interpret the opposing concepts. Though his talent and imagination were minimal—he could draw a straight line with the assistance of a ruler and little more—the draftsman managed somehow to reduce the trustees' ideas to several exterior designs and interior floor plans. Again the controversy was submitted to a general meeting, and the nod went to a pitched roof with fiat windows, and a centre entrance. The walls would be of red brick and the only exterior adornment would be a reproduction over the main doors of the tablets bearing the Ten Commandments.

  Inexpensive, functional, and not too Gentile in appearance. The little renaissance bird, lying stricken in the middle of the vacant lot on Bruce Street, now gave a final gasp for breath and expired.

  In both of these situations, there had not been a true consensus. Rather, there was a winner and a loser. At least, that's how Crandel and my father viewed matters. Dreyfus looked into the mirror as he shaved himself in the mornings and saw an increasingly unhappy middle-man, a man who could not remain non-aligned much longer. Between Crandel and my father the air was becoming too thick to breathe in, even for a man of Dreyfus' modest respiratory requirements.

  "Why do I need this aggravation?" he would ask of his wife in the privacy of their kitchen. Watching her husband push aside a supper only half-eaten, observing how he stared wearily down at a glass of tea only half-drunk, his wife would respond in a word, "Resign." But Dreyfus could not resign, could not admit defeat, could not let these fleeting moments of history, these compelling events in the affairs of men, pass him by. His eye was on that shining day when the key would be turned and the front doors would be open for the first time to admit the congregation, and it would be said of him and his two fellow trustees: "They did it, by God they really did it!" There would be a price to pay, something more profound and costly than unfinished meals and glasses of tea turned cold. He knew that eventually circumstances would force him to take a side and in doing so he knew he would automatically gain a fearful enemy. Being a man with a conscience, Dreyfus asked himself over and over again: is this goal of mine worth such a price? And each time the answer came back: yes!

  The agonies over the location and design of the synagogue were followed by other agonies in various dimensions. The cumulative effect of these confrontations between Crandel and my father changed the whole nature of the building committee. It now operated as a three-man parliament with Crandel and
my father alternating roles as the party in power and the official opposition, and Dreyfus sitting uneasily in the speaker's chair. If Crandel said light, my father said dark. If my father said straight, Crandel said curved. Votes of non-confidence took place almost every time a shovelful of earth was about to be dug or a nail was about to be hammered into place. The unfortunate contractor, a local man who had never before been engaged to build a synagogue, stood by with shovel and hammer, eyes turned heavenward, wondering: why me?

  Meanwhile the congregation's treasury had to be filled to meet mounting expenses. Two years had passed since the committee's appointment and thus far only the concrete foundation had been completed. Borrowing from their Christian counterparts, the women of the congregation became involved in the business of fundraising. They ran teas and bake sales, sold rummage, staged fashion shows, operated raffies, knitted, sewed, quilted. Like internal revenue agents they swooped down—entirely unexpected—upon their husbands' poker games, skimming the cream off winners' pots and appropriating the proceeds for the synagogue. Following a rash of such "income tax raids," the husbands chose to tax themselves voluntarily, on the theory that it was better to give up ten percent of the pot on your own than to have your wife breathing over your shoulder when you were waiting to fill an inside straight.