Friday the Rabbi Slept Late (7 page)

“But little by little, I won them over. I got figures on costs, estimates, prices, plans, and then when we finally acquired a building, it was a wonderful thing. In the evenings, and Sundays, they used to come down – the women in slacks, the men in dungarees, everybody working together, cleaning, fixing, painting. There were no cliques then, no parties. Everybody was interested and everybody worked together. They didn’t know very much, these young people. Most of them couldn’t even say their prayers in Hebrew, but the spirit was there.

“I remember our first High Holiday services. I borrowed a Scroll from the Lynn synagogue, and I was the leader and the reader, and I even gave a little sermon. For the Day of Atonement, I had a little help from the principal of the Hebrew school, but most of it I did myself. It was quite a day’s work, and on an empty stomach, too. I’m not a young man and I know my wife worried, but I never felt better in my life. It was a wonderful spirit we had in those years.”

“Then what happened?” asked the rabbi’s wife. Wasserman smiled wryly. “Then we grew. Jews really began to come to Barnard’s Crossing then. I like to think that our having: a school and a temple had something to do with it. When there were only fifty families everybody knew everybody else, differences of opinion could be hammered out in personal discussion. But when you have three hundred or more families, as we have now, it’s different. There are separate social groups now who don’t even know each other. You take Becker and his group, the Pearlsteins and the Korbs and the Feingolds, those who live on Grove Point, they keep to themselves. Becker is not a bad man, you understand. In fact, he’s a very fine man – and all those I mentioned, they’re all fine people, but their point of view is different from yours and mine. From their point of view, the bigger, the more influential, the temple organization is, the better.”

“But they’re the ones that pay the piper, so I suppose that gives them the right to call the tune,” the rabbi remarked.

“The temple and the community are bigger than a few large contributors,” said Wasserman. “A temple –”

He was interrupted by the doorbell, and the rabbi went to answer it. It was Stanley.

“You been waiting so anxious for those books, rabbi,” he said, “that I thought I’d stop on my way home to tell you they came. It was a big wooden box, so I brought it up to your study and pried the lid off for you.”

The rabbi thanked him and returned to the living room. But he could barely conceal his excitement. “My books have come, Miriam.”

“I’m so glad, David.”

“You won’t mind if I go over to look through them?” Then he suddenly remembered his guest. “They’re some rare books that were sent to me from the Dropsie College Library for a study I’m doing on Maimonides,” he explained.

“I was just going, rabbi,” said Wasserman, rising from his chair.

“Oh, you can’t go now, Mr. Wasserman. You haven’t finished your tea. You’ll embarrass me if you leave now. Insist that he remain, Miriam.”

Wasserman smiled good-naturedly. “I can see, rabbi, that you’re anxious to get to your books and I don’t want to keep you. Why don’t you go on and I’ll keep Mrs. Small company for a while.”

“You’re quite sure you don’t mind?” But already he was heading for the garage.

His way was blocked by his wife, her firm little chin held high. “You will not leave this house, David Small,” she announced, “unless you put on your topcoat.”

“But it’s mild out,” he protested.

“By the time you get home, it will be quite chilly.”

Resigned, the rabbi reached into the closet for his coat, but instead of putting it on he draped it defiantly over his arm.

Mrs. Small came back to the living room. “He’s like a boy,” she said by way of apology.

“No,” said Mr. Wasserman. “I think maybe he wanted to be by himself for a while.”

The Surfside was considered a reasonable restaurant: the prices were moderate, the service, though not fancy, was brisk and efficient, and although the decor was plain the food was good and the seafood exceptional. Mel Bronstein had never eaten there but as he approached, a car parked in front of the door pulled away and he took this as a sign. He remembered having heard the place well spoken of, and tooled his big blue Lincoln into the spot just vacated.

There were not too many people in the restaurant, he saw, as he made his way to a booth and ordered a martini. The walls were hung with lengths of fishnet, and other articles suggestive of the sea: a pair of oars, a mahogany ship’s wheel, painted wooden lobster-trap floats, and occupying a wall to itself, a truly imposing swordfish mounted on a mahogany panel.

He glanced around and, not surprisingly, saw no one he knew. The Surfside was in the lower part of town, Old Town, and people from his section, Chilton, rarely went there.

Most of the booths were occupied by couples, but diagonally across from him a young girl was, like himself, sitting alone. She was not pretty, but she had a young, fresh look. By the way she kept looking at her wristwatch he assumed she was waiting for someone; she had not ordered, but every now and then she sipped at her water glass, not because she was thirsty but because everyone else was eating.

The waitress came over to ask if he were ready to order, but he motioned to his glass to indicate a refill.

The girl opposite now seemed increasingly disturbed over the failure of her escort to appear. Each time she heard the door open, she turned around on her bench. Then, quite suddenly, her mood changed. She straightened up as if she had come to a decision. She drew off her white gloves and stuffed them into her handbag as though making ready to order. He saw she was wearing a wedding ring. As he watched, she twisted her ring off, opened her bag, and dropped it into the change purse.

She looked up and saw him watching her. Blushing, she turned away. He glanced at his watch. It was quarter to eight.

Hesitating only a moment, he eased out of the booth and went over to her. She looked up, startled.

“I am Melvin Bronstein,” he said, “and quite respectable. I hate to eat alone and I imagine you do. Wouldn’t you care to join me?”

Her eyes widened like a child’s. For a moment she lowered them, and then she looked up at him again and nodded.

“Let me give you some more tea, Mr. Wasserman.” He inclined his head in thanks. “I can’t tell you how badly I feel about this business, Mrs. Small. After all, I picked your husband; he was my personal choice.”

“Yes, I know, Mr. Wasserman. We wondered about it at the time, David and I. Usually when a congregation wants to hire a rabbi they ask a number of candidates to come down on successive Sabbaths to conduct the services and to meet with the board of directors or with the ritual committee. But you came down to the seminary alone, and on your own responsibility you picked David.” She eyed him speculatively and then immediately dropped her eyes to her teacup. “Perhaps if the ritual committee had acted as a whole they would have felt friendlier to him,” she said quietly.

“You think perhaps I insisted on making the selection myself? Believe me, Mrs. Small, the responsibility was not of my choosing. I would have preferred to let the decision rest with the ritual committee or with the board, but the building was finished in early summer, and the board was determined to start the New Year in September completely organized. When I suggested that the ritual committee go down to New York in a body – there are only three of us: Mr. Becker, Mr. Reich, and myself – it was Mr. Becker, if you please, who insisted that I go alone. ‘What do Reich and I know about rabbis, Jacob?’ Those were his exact words. ‘You know, so you go down and pick him. Anyone you choose will be all right with us.’ Maybe he was busy and couldn’t go out of town at the time, or maybe he really meant it. At first, I didn’t want to take the whole responsibility. Then, when I thought it over, I decided maybe it would be for the best. After all, Reich and Becker, they really do know nothing. Becker can’t even say his prayers in Hebrew, and Reich isn’t much better. I had already had one lesson. When it came to awarding the contract for the construction of the temple they hired Christian Sorenson as the architect. A Jewish architect wouldn’t do. If I hadn’t spoken out, the name Christian Sorenson – Christian, mind you – would have been on a bronze plate on the front of the temple.

The renowned ecclesiastical architect, Christian Sorenson, an exquisite with a black silk artist’s bow tie and pince-nez on a black ribbon to gesture with, had prepared a pasteboard model showing a tall, narrow box of a building with long narrow windows alternating with decorative columns of stainless steel. “I have spent the last fortnight in familiarizing myself with the basic tenets of your religion, gentlemen, and my design is intended to express its essential nature.” (A goon, Wasserman had thought, who can understand the essential nature of Judaism in two weeks!) “You will note that the tall narrow lines give a sense of aspiration, calling as they do for an upward movement of the eyes; that the simplicity of the design, stark and unrelieved by any trumpery decoration” – (Was he referring to the traditional Jewish symbols: Star of David, seven-branched candelabrum, Tables of the Law?) – “typifies the practical simplicity, if I may say so, gentlemen, the basic common sense of your religion. The stainless steel columns suggest both the purity of the religion and its resistance to the decay and erosion of time.”

The front elevation showed a row of stainless-steel doors from either side of which extended a long wall of glazed white brick that started at the full height of the doors and sloped away in a gentle curve to the extremities of the plot, “serving not only to soften the lines of the central mass, but also to relate it to the terrain. You will note that the effect is like a pair of open, embracing arms, calling upon people to come and worship. As a practical matter, these two walls, one on either side of the entrance, will separate the parking lot in front from the lawn which encircles the rest of the building.”

“At least I was able to see that only his first initial is on the plate – and after all, it’s not the building that forms the character of the congregation. But the character of the rabbi might. So I agreed to go down to the seminary alone.”

“And why did you pick my David, Mr. Wasserman?” He did not answer immediately. He realized that here was a very shrewd and forceful young woman and he should be careful with his answers. He tried to think just what it was that had attracted him to her husband. For one thing, he showed a considerable background in the study of the Talmud. No doubt the information in his folder, that he was descended from a long line of rabbis and that his wife was the daughter of a rabbi, had had something to do with it. Someone brought up in a rabbinical household could be expected to take the traditional, conservative point of view. But his first meeting had been disappointing: the young rabbi’s appearance was not imposing; he looked like a very ordinary young man. However, as they talked, he found himself beguiled by David Small’s friendliness, by his common sense. Then there was something about his gestures and tone vaguely reminiscent of the bearded patriarch from whom he himself had learned the Talmud when a lad in the old country; the young man’s voice had that gentle, coaxing quality, a certain rhythm that stopped just short of developing into the chant that was traditional with Talmudists.

Almost as soon as Wasserman had settled the matter, however, he had had misgivings. Not that he himself was dissatisfied, but he suspected that Rabbi Small was probably not what most of the congregation had in mind. Some expected a tall, austere man with a deep resonant voice, an Episcopal bishop sort of man; Rabbi Small was not tall, and his voice was gentle and mild and matter-of-fact. Some expected a jolly undergraduate sort of young man in gray flannels who would be at home on a golf course or at the tennis courts and be one with the young married set; Rabbi Small was thin and pate and wore eyeglasses, and although in excellent health he was obviously no athlete. Some had an image of the rabbi as a dynamic executive, an organizer, a go-getter who would set up committees, cajole or badger the entire congregation into ever more ambitious programs of service; Rabbi Small was rather absent-minded, had constantly to be reminded of his appointments, and had no idea of time or money. Although seemingly amenable to suggestions, he was also very good at forgetting them, especially if he had no great interest in them in the first place.

Wasserman picked his words carefully. “I’ll tell you, Mrs. Small. I chose him partly because I liked him personally. But there was something else. As you know, I interviewed several others at the time. They were all fine boys with good smart Jewish heads on them. But a rabbi of a community has to be something more than just smart. He has to have courage and he has to have conviction. With each of them I sat and talked for a while. We talked about the function of the rabbi in the community. And each of them agreed with me. We were feeling each other out – you always do in this kind of an interview – and as soon as they thought they knew the general direction of my Jewishness they would give it to me as their view in much better form than I could put it. I said they were smart. But your husband didn’t seem interested in finding out my views. And when I stated them, he disagreed with me, not disrespectfully, but quietly and firmly. An applicant for a job who disagrees with his prospective employer is either a fool or he has convictions, and there was nothing to suggest to me that your husband was a fool.

“And now, Mrs. Small, question for question: Why did your husband apply for the job and accept it when it was offered? I’m sure the placement office at the seminary gave the candidates some idea of the kind of community it was, and in my meeting with your husband I answered all his questions fairly.”

“Your idea is that he should have tried for a position with a more settled community,” she asked, “one likely to be more traditional in its practices and its attitude toward the rabbi?” She set her empty cup on the table. “We talked about it, and he felt that the future is not with them. Just to go along the established groove, just to mark time, that is not my David, Mr. Wasserman. He does have conviction, and he thought he could give it to your community. The fact that they sent a man like you, alone, to pick the rabbi, instead of a committee with the customary people like Mr. Becker, persuaded him that he had a chance. And now it appears that he was wrong. They definitely are planning to oust him?” Wasserman shrugged his shoulders. “Twenty-one admit that they are going to vote against him. They’re sorry, but they promised Al Becker or Dr. Pearlstein, or somebody else. Twenty say they’ll vote for the rabbi. But of these, at least four I’m not so sure about. They might not show up. They promised me, but from the way they talked – ‘I’ve got to go out of town Saturday, but if I get back in time you can count on me.’ So I can count on they won’t come in Sunday morning, and when they see me later on, they’ll tell me what a shame it is and how hard they tried to get back in time to come to the meeting.”