Monday the Rabbi Took Off (15 page)

They had left the irrigated fields of the kibbutz and were now traveling through desert, the land parched and dry, stony and barren, save for an occasional clump of low. dusty bushes that marked the path of a wadi. The bright sun was reflected off the hard-baked ground in a yellow glare. The oppressiveness of the lifeless scene silenced him. And then, in an effort to throw it off, he began talking again:

“As a rabbi. I’m a professionally religious person. I pray at stated times and in specific ways. Some of it is a matter of habit, like brushing my teeth. And some of it I have consciously practiced because I thought it important for the preservation of the religion and the people like the Englishman who was supposed to dress for dinner in the jungle. But things are different here. You don’t have to follow strict observances here because you don’t have to make the point. I imagine that same Englishman was a lot less meticulous about dressing for dinner when he was back in London. It may be all that we’ve added over the years, the prayers, the special ceremonials, were done to make that same kind of point and were necessary for that reason. But now it may be that the reason is gone and they are no longer necessary.11

“It’s funny.” Miriam said softly.

“What’s funny?” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, remembering always to watch the road.

“That you should come to the Holy Land and find that all the holy things aren’t really holy.”

“I see what you mean.” He smiled. “But it could be like my friend Bill Abbot who doesn’t feel like a Jew because he’s among Jews. Maybe holy things are out of place in the Holy Land. I don’t think I’d be very comfortable if it were a holy land in the strict sense of the phrase. You remember how shocked you were when you read your first Israeli newspaper and saw stories of burglaries, and thieves and prostitutes. It didn’t seem right that there should be theft and prostitution in the Holy Land.”

“It wasn’t so much that.” she said, “so much as it was that the prostitute was named Rachel and the thief Baruch.”

“And yet, if there weren’t a prostitute named Rachel and a thief named Baruch, it would not be a society that had been established here but rather a museum like Colonial Williamsburg where people are paid to parade around in Colonial costumes. Like a museum, it’s all right for a brief visit, but you couldn’t live there. Now. here it is just the opposite. I don’t think I’d care to come here for a brief visit, but I think I might like to live here.”

“You’re really thinking seriously of it then?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And the rabbinate?” she asked quietly. “Are you thinking of giving that up?”

He did not answer immediately, and they rode for some little while in silence. Then he said, “I’m not afraid to face up to the possibility that I might have made a mistake.”

Regularly, every Sunday afternoon when the weather and road conditions made it at all possible. Al Becker stopped by at the home of his old friend Jacob Wasserman to take him for a drive. Wasserman was the first president of the temple, indeed its founder, and Becker had backed him during the trying period when the organization was aborning and had then succeeded him in the presidency. They used to meet at the Sunday board meetings, but since neither of them now attended, the drive was by way of substitute. They talked of temple affairs largely; it was the one interest they had in common.

It was a mild day; the occasional mild day in March that was a forerunner of the lovely spring weather that sometimes comes to New England, and Wasserman was already in his overcoat, waiting on the porch when Becker drove up.

“I got a card from the rabbi.” Becker greeted him.

“Me too.”

“What did yours say?” Becker was a short, stocky man with a deep, gravelly voice that always carried a note of belligerence, an effect heightened by his tendency to twist his face forward when he spoke, as if to challenge the listener.

“What you say on a picture postcard. It was a picture of the Wall. On the back it said he was having a nice time. To tell the truth. I think it was the rebbitzin that wrote it and he signed it.”

“Same here. You know, sometimes I don’t understand the rabbi. Jacob. Now we’re his strongest backers in the temple, and we’ve gone to bat for him I don’t know how many times, and vet all he can think to send us is a lousy postcard which his wife wrote at that.”

“So? When you go on vacation, do you write letters?” Wasserman’s English was not so much accented as it showed a special effort to pronounce each word correctly.

“That’s different.”

“You send postcards, like when you went to California last summer. And it was Mrs. Becker that wrote them. Am I right?”

“Sure, but this is different. With me. it was just a matter of friendship. But with him. it’s business. He goes away for three months, which in itself is not such a good idea, not when you’ve got a board and a bunch of officers that are trying to screw you. When you’re in that position, you should stick around so you can fight back. Then he goes away without any contract. Now that ain’t smart, especially when you see them putting in a real hotshot as your replacement. Of course, we only got Marty Drexler’s say-so that that was what he wanted. I wouldn’t put it past that little bastard to maneuver the rabbi into a position where to save his self-respect he had to refuse a contract. And having agreed, he’d be too proud to come to us and tell us that Drexler had played him for a Mickey. So you’d think he’d be writing to us, to the guys who’ve been backing him. asking questions – what’s going on? What’s happening? Making suggestions on strategy. At least letting us know when he’s coming back so we can make preparations.”

“Ah. Becker, you’re a smart man, but not smart enough to understand the rabbi.” He rose slowly to his feet, and Becker held out a hand to help him down the stairs. “You’ve never understood him. The rabbi never plays tricks, and usually he says just what he means. He said he wanted a leave of absence; he was tired and wanted a rest.

So that’s what it was – like a vacation. For people like us, when we take a vacation, what does it mean? It means if it’s the winter, we go to Florida to get a little sunshine. If it’s the summer, we go to the mountains maybe to get away from the heat. We see new people. We get away from business maybe. The wife doesn’t have to do any housekeeping or bother with meals. It’s a little rest. But with a man like the rabbi, it’s something more. A rest like me and you need, he don’t need. When he stops working, it’s because he wants to take stock.”

“Take stock? What kind of stock has he got?”

“You’re thinking like in a warehouse? No. Or maybe yes. His stock is himself. So when he takes stock, he is asking himself how much of himself he’s used up. Did he get a good price for it? How much he’s got it left? And should he go on peddling it like before, or should he change his method of operation?”

Becker, helping the older man to the car. stopped and faced him. “Honest to God. Jacob. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“No? Tell me. would you want to be a rabbi?”

“A rabbi? Hell, no.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Well, for one thing I like to be in business for myself. From the time I was a kid peddling papers. I been working for myself. I don’t want to have to take any crap from some boss. And if it had to be from some of the guys we’ve had on the board, and yes. as president, there ain’t enough money in Fort Knox to pay me.”

“And for the money we pay Rabbi Small?”

Becker, his hand under the other’s arm. urged him forward again. “You’d have to tie me hand and foot.”

“So you think you’re smarter than the rabbi? In the old country, it used to be different. There the rabbi was the biggest man in town. In the shut there was a president, but the rabbi was like president of the whole community. In some places he was rich; in some places he could barely make a living. But it didn’t make any difference; he was the headman. If the rabbi made a decision, who would dare go against him? Not even the richest man in town.” Wasserman eased himself onto the car seat. “So here’s a young man, and he feels capable he should run the operation. So he goes into the rabbinate. But here it’s different. Here, a rabbi is not such an important person. Here, he has a bunch of bosses like Marty Drexler or Stanley Agranat or Bert Raymond. He sees right away it’s not like what he thought, but he keeps on because he keeps thinking maybe it’s improving a little, maybe he’s beginning to get control. Comes a time when he thinks maybe it’s always going to be this way – one year a little better maybe, the next year a little worse. Then he’s got to decide what to do. Of course, it he’s a rabbi like Rabbi Deutch –”

“What’s wrong with Rabbi Deutch? I’m sold on Rabbi Small, but I got to admit Rabbi Deutch is a good man.” He leaned forward to start the motor.

“Rabbi Deutch is a good American rabbi. For doing what an American rabbi does, he’s one of the best I’ve seen around. He looks nice, he talks nice, and he don’t get into any trouble with the important people. Maybe when he was the same age as Rabbi Small, he had the same questions in his mind and decided it wasn’t worthwhile fighting, that by bending a little here and there he could have a peaceful life.” Wasserman waved a blue-veined hand to illustrate Deutch’s probable flexibility. “But Rabbi Small is a little different. So that’s what I’m afraid of. that he might decide that it isn’t worth it.”

“How do you know all this. Jacob? Did the rabbi confide in you?”

“No. he didn’t confide in me, and he didn’t ask my advice. But I know it just the same. I knew it when I heard that he wasn’t taking any money from the temple while he’s on his vacation. Because if he took his salary while he wasn’t working, like you might say if he took money for nothing, then he would feel obliged to come back. So when he wouldn’t take the money or a contract or anything, that meant he wasn’t sure he was coming back. Not sure, you understand. Because if he was sure he wasn’t coming back, he would just have resigned. And that’s why he didn’t write us yet. Because so far he hasn’t yet made up his mind.” He looked at Becker. “Now, how do you put that on a postcard?”

The voice was so loud that the rabbi held the receiver a little away from his ear. “Rabbi? Shalom. I’ll bet you’ll never guess who’s speaking. Well, it’s V. S. Markevitch, that’s who.”

In his mind’s eye, the rabbi could see the speaker at the other end of the wire, beaming with satisfaction at the pleasant surprise he had been able to confer on him. V. S. Markevitch was always conferring pleasant surprises on his friends and acquaintances. Back in Barnard’s Crossing, he would drop in on someone of an evening without bothering to call in advance, and even when he found they were preparing to go out. he was never put out of countenance, but would talk, raising his voice so that the lady of the house, who was in the bedroom putting on her makeup, would not miss anything he was saying to her husband, who was forced by politeness to remain in the room and zigzag his tie on there without the aid of the bedroom mirror. He was always sure people were glad to see him.

He usually referred to himself in the third person, rarely using the pronoun, preferring to repeat the mouth-filling name as often as necessary. He was not a member of the board of directors of the temple, but he did not hesitate to get up at general meetings and Brotherhood get-togethers to give his opinions. Rising to his feet, his round bald head gleaming, his mouth wide in a perpetual smile, he would say. “Mr. Chairman, V. S. Markevitch would like to comment on the motion on the floor.” When recognized, he would bombard his listeners with, “V. S. Markevitch feels that… ” and “In the humble opinion of V. S. Markevitch… “

“When did you arrive, Mr. Markevitch?” said the rabbi.

“Just got in.” The voice sounded surprised as if to convey the idea that it was unthinkable for V. S. Markevitch to come to Israel for whatever reason and not call his rabbi the very first thing.

“Are you alone, Mr. Markevitch? Or is Mrs. Markevitch with you? Are you on a tour?”

“I’m here with just Katz, my partner. We’re here on business. Rabbi. We got a bunch of meetings scheduled, one with the Minister of Industrial Development for sure, and then we join a group that will meet with the Prime Minister, but that’s later on in the week. It’s probably nothing very much to you. I guess by this time you’ve met all the big shots –”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, maybe I’ll be able to introduce you to them – after I’ve met them. Now here’s what I’d like. We got a cab, and they’re just loading our things on, and we’re taking off for Jerusalem in a couple of minutes. We’ll be staying at the King David tonight and tomorrow. Then we go off to Haifa. So how’s about us getting together, and maybe you could show us the town, all the sights and things?”

“Well, I’m not much of a guide, but I’ll be happy to see you and show you and Mr. Katz around.”

“It’s a date. Rabbi.”

They met the next morning in the lobby of the hotel. Markevitch and Katz had just finished their breakfast in the cafeteria, but they thought they would like another cup of coffee, and so the three men sat around a table sipping at coffee and talking about Barnard’s Crossing.

Markevitch jokingly called Joe Katz his silent partner – “on account I’m apt to do all the talking.”

Whereas Markevitch was big and expansive, with a wide smile seemingly cutting his melon-like head in two. Katz was a small, worried man with sad eyes and a shy smile. As Markevitch talked. Katz was silent, nodding at his partner’s sallies, wincing occasionally when he felt his partner had uttered an indiscretion.

Markevitch’s voice was not so much loud as never lowered. Regardless of where he was. he spoke in his normal conversational tones. In the lobby, he spoke as though he were addressing all the guests in the hotel. So all the guests heard that the Mazurs were getting a divorce. Josiah Goldfarb’s boy had been arrested for drugs. The Hirshes had sold their hardware business in Lynn and were moving to Florida. Max Kaufman’s boy. Al. had won first prize at the high school science fair. There was a new traffic light on Elm Street just before the temple, which should make it safer for the kids going to the religious school. Lenny Epstein had pledged a thousand dollars to the School Fund.