Monday the Rabbi Took Off (30 page)

“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.11 “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 living-room 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 his 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 cafes, 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.”

“He asked me, and if I weren’t coming here, I would have gone. He doesn’t go to the Wall. He goes to a little shul in the Quarter, and I like to go there.”

“He has preferences in shuls, my son. He’s getting to be a regular rabbi. Every day he puts on phylacteries and prays –”

“So what? You want to remember something, you put a string around your finger. So what’s wrong if I tie a strap around my arm and another around my head –”

“To remind you of what?” his mother demanded.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe that when I am alone on patrol. I may not be alone. There’s a chance of catching a sniper’s bullet or stepping on a mine. It’s not pleasant to think that it is just a matter of luck, that if you hadn’t taken one extra step, it wouldn’t have happened. It’s better to think that there is a great design of which I am a part. yes, and even of which my being shot is a part. Look, all this business here, the candles, the wine, the challahs, the whole idea of the Sabbath – it’s beautiful. Can something be beautiful and have no meaning? You yourself light the candles at home.”

“The Sabbath is not really religion.” said his mother stoutly. “It’s a major sociological contribution that we have made.”

“Aren’t all religious practices sociological contributions?” said the rabbi mildly.

Gittel canted her head to one side and considered. “Your husband has a curious way of looking at things. Miriam.” she said. Then to the rabbi: “You may be right, but even a major sociological innovation can in time become a mere superstition. Take my son –”

“Oh, come on. Gittel.” Uri protested, “there must be other subjects of conversation besides me. Did you get to see Sarah?”

“I saw her, and I saw Avner. too. He was there at the hospital when I came in. And I told him to his face. ‘Avner Adoumi.11 said, ‘if you want your wife – ’”

“Yes, I know,” Uri interrupted. “He should give up his job.”

“You still didn’t explain why it’s so dangerous.” said the rabbi.

“The exact nature of his work. I don’t know.” Gittel said, “only that he’s a high government official –”

“Come on. Gittel. you know very well he’s in the Shin Bet.” said her son.

“I know nothing of the sort. Neither he nor Sarah ever told me, and I wouldn’t think of asking. And I should think you, in the Army, would know better than to mention it.”

“Why? You think David and Miriam are going to spread it around? Maybe I ought to go out and see her while I’m in the city.”

“When? Tomorrow? You can’t. Your friends, the religious, won’t let you because you would have to ride. No visitors at Hadassah on the Sabbath. Even Avner can’t go see his own wife. By them it’s a terrible crime. So they impose rules on the rest of us. They’re not even true Israelis; they don’t even talk the language –”

“And the bunch of Anglo-Saxons and Yekkies that run Hadassah and your hospital, too. you call them real Israelis? As for the language, they don’t even want to learn it. Some of them have been here thirty veers or more and still can’t read a Hebrew newspaper or understand a Hebrew news broadcast.”

“So there is a ‘real Israeli’ question here?” said the rabbi pleasantly. “I suppose that’s a sign that the state is fully established. During the formation and founding of a state there’s usually no time for such arguments.”

“You don’t understand. David.” said Uri earnestly. “You haven’t been here long enough. It’s a matter of principle –”

“No, Uri. it’s a matter of logic.” said the rabbi firmly. “Anyone who is a citizen of Israel is automatically a real Israeli. Some are perhaps more typical than others. I suppose that a Pekinese is a less typical dog than a foxhound, but he is still a real dog. What else could he be? Your test of language would exclude a lot of people who came here and died to establish the country. Your own father, I understand, did not speak Hebrew.”

“My husband was a Yiddishist,” said Gittel stiffly. “He did not speak the language out of principle.”

“So the religious groups, some of them at least, don’t speak it out of principle either.” said the rabbi. “They consider it a holy language and hence not to be used for mundane things.”

“No one really objects to their not speaking Hebrew or to their strange dress and outlandish costumes for that matter.” said Gittel. “What we object to is that they are less than fifteen percent of the population and they try to impose their customs on the rest of us.”

“Would you deny to a political group the right to use their intelligence to increase their influence and propagate their ideas?” the rabbi demanded. “And remember, with them, it’s a matter of not just political principles. They may be mistaken, but they think they’re carrying out divine commandments.”

“Fanatics!” said Gittel. “That’s what they are.”

The rabbi tilted his head to one side and smiled. “Even fanatics have their uses. They form one end of the normal curve that comprises all of us. If they were a little nearer the center, then those on the other end would have been just that much farther away. If a couple of hundred years ago we had all been ‘enlightened.1 would we be a people today?”

Gittel pushed her plate aside, planted her elbows on the table, and leaned forward, the light of battle in her eyes. “David, you are a rabbi, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not your fault.” she added magnanimously, “you haven’t lived here long enough to know what’s going on. It’s not only in the restrictions they impose on the rest of us on the Sabbath, but there are whole areas in which they have complete control. They control marriage; they control who is a Jew. They practically control our hotels and restaurants. And all on the basis of ancient regulations that have no bearing in a modern society. Because a man’s name happens to be Cohen, they refuse him permission to marry a divorced woman on the grounds that he is of the family of Cohanim or priests, and according to Leviticus or Deuteronomy or someplace, the priest must not marry a divorcee. A woman suffers all kinds of cruelty and abuse from her husband, and she cannot get a divorce because only the husband may grant a divorce.”