One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross (11 page)

Rabbi Karpis caught the glance and asked, “You play chess? It's a problem. White to move and mate in three. I'll admit I'm baffled by it.” He spoke in English with a trace of a British accent.

“Yes, I saw it in the newspaper. You move the knight.”

“Why move the knight?”

“Just to get it out of the way and clear the file.”

“But then black takes the queen.”

“Let him. You move your other knight to bishop eight, which cuts off the black king from—”

“Ah, yes, I see. Of course. How stupid of me!” And then, “How long did it take you?”

“A couple of days,” Rabbi Small lied. “And then it was mostly a matter of luck.”

“Hm.” Rabbi Karpis sat back and surveyed his visitor suspiciously from under lidded eyes. Then he said, “My colleague tells me you are a Conservative rabbi.”

“Yes, and he seemed to disapprove.”

Rabbi Karpis smiled. “Mr. Kahn is”—he fished for a word and settled on—“young. Young men have strong convictions. While I am myself opposed to these experiments—Conservatism, Reform, Reconstructionism—with God's commandments, nevertheless from time to time we have received support, financial support, for our work here from Jews of those persuasions.”

“Indeed!” said Rabbi Small politely.

“Does it surprise you, Rabbi? Consider. Why do our students come to us? Because they wish to return to the beliefs and practices of their fathers. And why? Because while some of them have led perfectly normal, commonplace lives and found them unsatisfactory, others have experimented with strange religions, with drugs, with exotic life-styles. Some of them have even gotten in trouble with the secular authorities. And how do their parents feel about their coming to us, about their return? Grateful, Rabbi. They feel grateful.”

“And they send you a check in acknowledgment.”

The director nodded, beaming.

“It's only fair to tell you,” said Rabbi Small, “that there is little of that sort of thing to hope for from Goodman—er, Ish-Tov. His folks are in very modest circumstances, which is why they have not come over to see him. They just couldn't afford it. When they heard I was coming over, they asked me to look him up and see if he's all right.”

“Oh, you mustn't think we are interested only in those whose parents might make a contribution,” said the director reproachfully. “We need money, as every organization needs money, but we have not forgotten our original purpose.”

“And what is that?”

Rabbi Karpis looked in surprise. “Why, to bring Jews back to their faith, to their heritage. They were all worldly and for the most part unhappy when they came to us. We teach them what they should know as Jews. We reorient them, and they are—”

“Born again?” asked Rabbi Small innocently.

Rabbi Karpis waggled an admonishing forefinger at him. “Ah, you're chaffing, of course.” Then primly, “We are all born again every morning when we wake up.” He leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. “Are you suggesting we seduce these young men? Brainwash them? That we are a cult like those that have arisen in such profusion recently in your country?”

“I rather wondered when your colleague at the front desk said that Goodman wouldn't want to see me, when he had not bothered to ask him. And then when I persisted, brought me to you, instead of merely notifying Goodman that someone had arrived with a message from his parents.”

“Ah, well, Mr. Kahn is somewhat peremptory, even short-tempered. He is not only our secretary, but is also charged with maintaining the discipline of study and ritual observance. For our purposes it is good to have a man like that in charge of discipline. They came to us, many of them, because they realized that the lives they had been leading were unsatisfactory, ineffective, counterproductive. They were slaves of their emotions and did things on the spur of the moment. Do you know how your friend Goodman—Ish-Tov—happened to come to us, to Israel? He was in California and was planning to go to South America when he met someone named Good who had the return portion of a round-trip ticket from Israel to America. It was about to run out, so he was able to buy it for a few dollars, and it was easy to change the name on the ticket from Good to Goodman. So he came to Israel, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Now, if one of these young men wants to go to Eilat for a weekend, or even to a movie one night, there is Mr. Kahn to tell him he can't. If he should insist, do you think we would hold him here by force? No, he would walk out, but he would not be permitted to return. Discipline, Rabbi Small, discipline! Once study and ritual observance have become a matter of habit, in other words, once he has achieved self-discipline, ours is no longer necessary, and he is free to come and go as he pleases.

“Now, Mr. Kahn has an acute understanding of the needs and the special weaknesses of each of our young men. Why didn't he want Ish-Tov to see you? Perhaps because he felt that at this moment in time, Ish-Tov's study should not be interrupted. Or that at this particular time, it would be unwise for Ish-Tov to have his attention diverted from his studies to his former life in the States. Or”—he smiled broadly—“Kahn may have had a headache.”

“A headache?”

“Yes.” Rabbi Karpis folded his hands and nodded. And then shook his head slowly in commiseration. “The poor man is subject to severe migraine headaches, and sometimes he is apt to be short-tempered as a result.”

“I see. And when your young men throw stones at passing cars on the Sabbath, or pile trash on your neighbor's garden, is that because of Mr. Kahn's headaches, or is it a part of the discipline?”

The older man leaned forward and said earnestly, “Believe me, Rabbi Small, I never approved of that. And it has not happened since I took over.” He raised his shoulders and then dropped them in an elaborate shrug. “In our organization, in any organization, there are differences of opinion as to the best way of achieving its goals. These differences crystallize into factions. Even among the
tannaim
, there was the School of Hillel and the School of Shammai. My predecessor is a man of vast learning and great probity. He is part of what might be called the activist faction. Then the”—he fished for a word—“shall we say, the climate, yes, the climate shifted and our—er—strategy for—of a number of things—changed.”

“I see. Well, in the light of this shift in climate, can I speak to Mr. Ish-Tov? I have no intention of interfering with your discipline or—”

“My dear Rabbi Small, of course.” He reached for the telephone on his desk, pressed a button, and said, “Yossi? Would you have Ish-Tov come down to my office immediately?”

He listened, nodding, and then hung up. “I'm terribly sorry, Rabbi. I had quite forgotten. Ish-Tov went up to Haifa today with our truck. We have some new desks coming. He won't be back until quite late. But you can see him tomorrow, or whenever it is convenient for you. If you give me your phone number, I can call you and arrange for an appointment, but I'm quite sure that anytime tomorrow will be all right.” He smiled. “And if you have time, perhaps we can play a game of chess afterward.”

14

As he was making his way to the bus stop, Rabbi Small heard his name called. He stopped and looked about him uncertainly, and then he saw James Skinner waving to him from a second-floor window. He waved back and was about to proceed, but the other signaled to him frantically, so he waited, assuming that Skinner wanted to speak to him. In a moment Skinner came running out of his front door and shouted, “Come and have a coffee, Rabbi!”

The rabbi looked about curiously as Skinner led him up the path to the front door. On either side of the path there were little circles of stones in which various flowers grew. Radiating from the circles were small oblong plots, also set off by rows of stones in which various forms of cactus were set out. On the side that adjoined the yeshiva land, there was a row of tall cypress trees that effectively cut off the view of the building.

“We can't maintain grass,” Skinner explained. “Too dry, I guess. I have a gardener who comes around once a week or so. He tried because I insisted, but when I found he wasn't able to manage, I gave him his head and let him do what he wanted. As long as he keeps it fairly neat, I don't mind. Nevertheless, I didn't appreciate it when our friends over there”—a nod toward the yeshiva—“decided to add to the decor.”

“I spoke to the director, and I gathered that you are not likely to be troubled that way again.”

“Yeah, so I understand.”

The rabbi was not altogether surprised to find when he entered the door that the layout was similar to that of the yeshiva. There was the same broad staircase leading up to the second floor and the same arrangement of large black and white tiles on the floor of the foyer. On the right, however, was a large room with double doors, one of which was partly open. The rabbi glanced in.

“The salon,” said Skinner. “I don't use it much. It gives me the willies.” He opened it, however, perhaps to prove his point.

It was a large room with oriental rugs scattered about, and full of massive furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl. There were all kinds of brass lamps on teakwood tables. The walls were almost covered with tapestries or small, finely woven oriental rugs.

“It's like a room in a museum,” Skinner went on. “My grandfather collected most of it, although my father added to it as well. I suppose some of the things are worth something these days. I'd be inclined to get rid of all of it and make a modern room out of it, but Martha would be horrified and probably would never forgive me. She dusts and polishes in here as though it were a shrine. Actually, I have occasionally entertained some of my Arab customers here, because they're apt to be impressed by that sort of thing. Let's go upstairs to my office. We'll be more comfortable there.”

The room was as much a living room as it was an office. Most of the space was taken up by a large sofa, upholstered chairs, and a coffee table. However, to be sure, on one side was a large, old-fashioned rolltop desk, its top covered by a mass of papers, old letters, bills, receipts, the corners of those that protruded from the bottom of the pile yellow with age. All the pigeonholes were stuffed with business cards and folded-up papers. Jammed against it was an old swivel chair covered with worn and in places torn black leather. Beside the desk was a modern metal file cabinet. And on the other side was a modern metal flat-topped desk at which a youngish Arab was working. He immediately jumped to his feet when they entered.

“Get us some coffee, Ismael. And some of those cookies that Martha bakes,” said Skinner.

“Yes, Mr. James. Regular or Turkish?”

Skinner looked inquiringly at the rabbi, who said, “Regular for me. Black.”

“I'll have the same, Ismael. And we'll have it here.”

“Yes, Mr. James.”

“Martha is always annoyed when I serve coffee to a guest here in my office,” Skinner remarked. “She thinks it highly improper. But she's not in today because it's Sunday. It's her day off. She's Christian.”

“And Ismael?”

“Oh, he's Muslim.”

“So his day off is Friday?”

Skinner chuckled. “No, he doesn't get a day off. Not as such. You see, he lives here and …”

He broke off as Ismael entered with the coffee. He had a pot and two cups and saucers and a plate of cookies on a tray. He placed a cup on the little semicircle of bare space on the rolltop desk for Skinner, and the other with the cookies on the coffee table in front of the sofa, on which the rabbi was sitting.

“Is there anything else, Mr. James?” he asked.

“No, Ismael. This is fine. Oh, and take all telephone calls, will you?”

“Yes, Mr. James.” Ismael bowed and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

“You see,” said Skinner, “Ismael is my manager. He's in charge all the time I'm away. So he can take off anytime he wants to—when I'm not here, that is. Who's to know? So when I'm here, he's with me all the time.”

“He appears to have other duties besides attending to your business affairs,” remarked the rabbi.

“Yeah.” Skinner chuckled again. “He does just about everything. He's my chauffeur. I don't drive. And he does the cooking Sundays when Martha is off. I guess I can count on him for practically everything.”

“You're lucky to have him.”

“And he's lucky to have me. He sort of attached himself to my father eight or nine years ago, and he's been with us ever since. He had no family, no money, and now he lives well. He has a fine home, eats well, dresses well, and has status in the Arab community.”

They talked of general matters for a while, and then, when the rabbi said he had to be going, Skinner offered to have Ismael drive him.

“Oh, I wouldn't think of troubling him. I can take the bus.”

“Nonsense, Rabbi. You might have to wait fifteen or twenty minutes in the hot sun at the bus stop. And when one comes along, it might be jammed to the doors. It's no trouble for Ismael to take you. I'll tell him to bring the car around.”

He walked to the door with the rabbi when Ismael drew up in the car. “Oh, you might have to direct him, Rabbi,” he said. And at the rabbi's look of surprise, he explained, “He never goes to Rehavia. Neither do I. We just have no occasion to. All our business is in East Jerusalem or the Old City.… Were there any phone calls, Ismael?”

“Only one from the plumber to say he could be here Thursday.”

“Thursday? Did you argue with him?”

“I asked if he couldn't come sooner, but he said Thursday was the earliest.”

“Okay. We'll just have to be patient, I guess.”

15

The next day Rabbi Small waited in the visitors' room at the yeshiva, a small, bare room containing a sofa, a round mahogany table, and a few armchairs. Even though the shabby chairs and sofa were spruced up with crocheted antimacassars, there was a feeling that the room was rarely used. On the table there was a bowl of artificial flowers. When he came in, Jordan Goodman, now Yehoshua Ish-Tov, looked about curiously, suggesting that he, too, might be seeing the room for the first time.