Monday the Rabbi Took Off (10 page)

“We’ve got it on our list.” said Miriam. “And what are you going to do?”

“I’ll just walk around and look over the city.”

By the time he had finished his morning prayers and eaten breakfast, the sun was already high in the heavens. It beat down in a hard glare on the white stone of the city so that he found himself squinting; he made a mental note that he must buy a pair of sunglasses. Still, there was a chill in the air as on a pleasant April morning at home, and he was glad he had thought to put on a light raincoat.

As he strolled along leisurely, he was strangely out of tempo with the others he saw walking along the street, mostly women returning from their morning’s shopping, carrying their groceries in string bags. Even though the streets through which he walked were residential, some of them splendid with new apartment houses, here and there were tiny shops tucked away in semi-basements – a grocery, a coffee shop, a bakery, a laundry.

Ahead were a pair of civilian guards, middle-aged men. who. like him. were strolling leisurely. They were in a uniform of sorts: green armbands and berets and long military coats much the worse for wear. The trousers that showed beneath were obviously of civilian cut and material. One carried an old rifle and the other a steel rod about two feet long with which to prod suspicious packages left in trash barrels. Rabbi Small wondered idly if they took turns with the rifle. They were holding a heated discussion, gesticulating extravagantly. As he came near, he heard one say “So Agnon is not so much a Hebrew writer as a Yiddish writer who writes in Hebrew. There is a difference.” The guard broke off when the rabbi stopped beside them and looked at him suspiciously.

“Can you tell me please if I am heading toward the center of the city?” the rabbi asked.

“Where do you want to go?”

“I am new here.” the rabbi explained. “Where are the shops, the business district?”

“He wants Zion Square. What do you want to buy?”

“I don’t want to buy anything. I just want to see the city.”

“Ah. well, right ahead is King George Street. If you turn left, you’ll come to Ben Yehuda Street. That is the business district.”

The streets were narrow and crowded, and the stores along the route small and. compared to what he was used to in America, unattractive. They were like the stores he had seen in small New England factory towns, with merchandise in the windows that seemingly had not been changed since the stores were first opened. In narrow alleys or in the space between two buildings, and even spread out on the sidewalk where it widened slightly, there were men with stands, selling a large variety of small articles like pencils, combs, razors, wallets, umbrellas, cigarette lighters. At several points along the street, there were small kiosks where lottery tickets were sold. Here and there, in doorways and on the sidewalks, there were old men sitting, their backs resting against the wall of a building, selling newspapers. One or two had no papers to sell, nor anything else, but clinked a few coins in their hands at passersby.

Everywhere there were young men and women in uniform. Many of the men were carrying automatic rifles, short weapons with metal frame stocks. They carried them slung from their shoulders by straps, or under their arms like umbrellas, or dangling by the trigger guards like briefcases. It occurred to him that they did not look like soldiers, young and sturdy though they were. There was something civilian and matter-of-fact in their bearing, as though they were engaged in some civilian occupation that required a uniform, like a bus driver.

Here and there, too. he saw Chassidim, old and young, in their silk dressing-gown-like coats, their broad-brimmed felt hats, their pantaloons wrapped around their legs and stuck into their stocking tops, their ringlets jiggling as they walked. Once he was almost run over by a motorcycle that roared past him as he stepped off the curb at a crossing. On it were two young Chassidim, their beards and ringlets flying in the breeze, the one on the pillion clutching his broad-brimmed felt with one hand while he clung to his companion with the other.

The rabbi saw a hat store and thought to buy another yarmulke to keep in his jacket pocket. They were on sale in all the gift shops in red velvet and in blue, decorated with gold and silver braid, but he wanted a plain black one.

The proprietor of the hat store was a tall man with a long beard. His son in khaki, home on leave, was helping out. his automatic rifle conspicuous on a shelf behind the counter. There were several men. evidently none of them customers, talking about Arab terrorists and what measures the government ought to take against them. They were talking in Yiddish, in which the rabbi was not fluent, but which he could follow. It was the son who broke off after a minute to ask him what he wanted, put two piles of black yarmulkes on the counter, indicated that one was two lira and the other four, and went back to rejoin the conversation, interrupting it again only long enough to take the rabbi’s money and give him the necessary change.

It occurred to the rabbi that there was something curiously simple and. by American commercial standards, even primitive about the transaction; a transfer of money and merchandise with no formality; no wrapping, no sales slip. There was no cash register; the young man had made change from a drawer under the counter. He had not even said the customary “Thank you.” albeit when the rabbi did so. he answered automatically., “Bevakasha”– if you please.

Rabbi Small continued to stroll along the street, stopping to look in the store windows, automatically converting the prices in Israeli lira to American dollars. He followed the winding streets, none of which ever seemed to meet at right angles, and suddenly found himself in an open market district, an area of narrow lanes lined with stands of merchandise, largely fruits and vegetables, although here and there were fish or meat stalls and even an occasional dry goods or clothing store, all jammed together, presided over by Arabs, bearded Jews, women – shouting, dickering, gesticulating, prodding the merchandise. There were also stands, the precursors of the department store, where one could buy a comb or a notebook or a pack of needles or a box of facial tissues or an overcoat for that matter, if one of the half dozen hanging on a rack were the right size.

He wandered down a side lane and suddenly found himself in a residential district of old stone houses, one or two stories high, evidently occupied largely by Chassidim. The men were beginning to come home from their shops or their study halls to prepare for the Sabbath. In open courtyards children were playing, the little boys with heads shaved except for the ringlets that hung down the sides of their faces. They all wore skullcaps, which they were hard put not to lose as they ran or kicked at a soccer ball. The little girls played by themselves to one side. games like jump rope and hopscotch. Every now and then there was the drumming of the engine of a motorcycle, curiously out of keeping with the general atmosphere, and a dark, swarthy, truculent young man, clean-shaven, but with long hair in the mod style and dressed in flashy bell-bottomed trousers supported low on the hips by a wide fancy belt, would roar by and disappear around a corner.

The rabbi made his way through the district, uncertain of his direction but loath to ask any of the women sitting on the steps of their houses, not knowing if they would consider it improper for a strange man to address them. But finally he came out to a wide street with high modern apartment houses that looked familiar. Sure enough, at the next corner he saw by the sign that he was on Jaffa Road, which he knew ultimately led to King George Street. He was tired now and grateful when he spotted a small cafe where he could sit for a while over a cup of coffee.

It was a pleasantly restful place, at least at that hour, with a rack of newspapers and magazines in French and German, as well as in Hebrew. Only a couple of the tiny tables were occupied, and these by individuals engrossed in their newspapers. He gave his order and then selected from the rack a copy of the afternoon paper.

The lead story concerned the latest terrorist outrage, the explosion of a bomb in an apartment house in the Rehavia section of Jerusalem the night before. A man had been killed, a professor of agronomy at the university. Only because his wife and two children had spent the night with relatives in Haifa had they been spared his fate. The paper evidently had not had time to inquire into the victim’s background too deeply but gave a short resume of his life, the kind that is kept on file in an administration office, together with a picture taken from the same source.

On an inside page of the paper they ran a map of the area. When the rabbi saw it. he sat up with a start. The incident had occurred only one street over from Victory Street. That must have been what had awakened him in the middle of the night – the noise of the explosion!

A government authority admitted that it was probably the work of the CAT group – Committee for Arab Triumph – which had exploded a bomb in the marketplace in Jaffa a couple of weeks before, killing two people. In that case. CAT had called the police a few minutes prior to the explosion. On another occasion, their call had come early enough, or their device had not worked as planned, so that the police had been able to find the bomb and disarm it. This time there had been no warning call, however.

A photograph showed the device used, a small, oblong box of black plastic that looked like a pocket radio. Indeed, on one side was a dial which, when pulled out. actuated the mechanism, exploding the charge approximately an hour later. A notice in bold type accompanied the article, explaining that anyone who came across such a device could interrupt the action and prevent the explosion by depressing the plunger. Although this would not render it harmless, it could be reactivated by reversing the process and withdrawing the plunger again – it would make it safe enough to handle.

Most of the paper was devoted to the story, and the rabbi read it all avidly. An Army demolition expert was quoted as disparaging the device. “It is not a very powerful bomb.” he said with the objectivity of the professional “and the thrust is only in one direction.”

A neighbor who was interviewed said he understood the victim had been working on something that would have been of great value to Arab farmers.

An editorial heatedly attacked the psychology of the terrorist which led him to regard his nefarious attacks on innocent civilians as waging war.

The rabbi returned the newspaper to the rack, paid for his coffee, and left the cafe. He had overcome his momentary impulse to hurry home to search the apartment on the chance that a small black plastic box had been left there. He wondered if Miriam knew about the explosion and whether she was frightened or concerned. And if not, if he should tell her. But as he walked along, he realized that she was sure to know. She and Gittel had gone to the supermarket to shop. People would be talking about it, and even though the talk would be in Hebrew. Gittel would understand. And Gittel would tell her and. if necessary, calm her. It was two o’clock now, and on the streets people hurried as though they all were late for an important appointment. The stores were either closed or closing, the proprietors obviously also in a hurry. On one corner there was a booth where flowers were being sold; only here was the shopkeeper still doing business. But he, too. was busily trying to service the three or four customers who were waiting impatiently. The rabbi joined the group and bought a bunch of carnations. Then he too hurried home.

Miriam and Jonathan were there when he arrived, but Gittel had gone. “Uri usually gets a weekend pass,” Miriam explained. “Naturally, she wants to be home to receive him. I suggested that she try to get word to him through the Army people to come to Jerusalem instead of Tel Aviv, but I guess even Gittel couldn’t manage that.”

“Did she try?” asked the rabbi.

“No. as a matter of fact. I gather she considers it unpatriotic to bother the Army with unimportant requests. The Army is sort of sacrosanct over here.”

“It must be if she didn’t try to manage it.” he said dryly. “Oh, but she’s a good soul. David.”

He looked surprised. “But of course. I think she’s grand. I don’t mind her managing. She comes of a long line of matriarchal managers, all the way from Devorah to Golda. It’s a tradition with us. In the shtetl, while the men studied, the women ran things.” He smiled. “You’ve got a little of it yourself, you know. I’m only sorry Gittel is not with us to celebrate our first Sabbath in Israel.” He handed her the flowers and kissed her. “A happy Sabbath.”

He wanted to ask if she had heard the news, but Jonathan came running into the room. “I was in school. Daddy, and I’m going every day – with Shaouli from upstairs.”

“That’s fine. Jonathan.” He touched his hair affectionately. “And how did you like school?”

“Oh, it was all right.” Then with special excitement: “You know, the kids here, they don’t know how to throw a ball. They kick it. With their feet.”

“Well, that’s mighty interesting.” He wanted to say more. He wanted to question his son about the school. He wanted to ask Miriam how she had spent the day. But he could not; he was too tired.

“I walked all over the city,” he began by way of explanation.

“Why don’t you go and lie down for a while, David, and catch a nap? I did.” Miriam said, “and I felt wonderful afterward.”

“Yes, I think I will.” He hesitated. “Did you hear about –”

She quickly turned to make sure Jonathan was out of earshot. “Yes, but let’s not discuss it now. Go and lie down.”

He had no sooner kicked off his shoes than he fell asleep. It seemed only a few minutes later when Miriam awakened him. “You’d better get up now. David. It’s our first Sabbath in Jerusalem, and I think we should eat together. Besides. I don’t want to keep Jonathan up too late.”

He sat up with a jolt. “What time is it?”

“It’s seven o’clock.”

“But the evening service, it’s over by now.”

“I didn’t have the heart to waken you. You were sleeping so soundly. It’s the long plane ride. Our internal clocks are out of kilter.”

He rose and washed, splashing cool water on his face. He felt refreshed as he came into the dining room and saw that the table was set, the candles lit, and his flowers in a vase in the center of the table. He sat down at the head of the table and filled the kiddush cup.