Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry (5 page)

Schwarz frowned his disapproval of the rabbi’s levity. In his relation with the rabbi, humor was a one-way street. “This is serious business. Tell me, is something really wrong?”

“Any time a man that age gets sick, it’s serious, I suppose. But I think he’ll be all right.” He went on briefly to describe his visit.

The frown did not lift from the president’s handsome face; if anything, it grew more pronounced. “You mean to say you threatened old man Goralsky with a suicide’s grave, Rabbi? You must have offended him.”

“I don’t think so. I think he rather enjoyed fencing with me. He could see that I was more than half fooling.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Why this tremendous interest in Mr. Goralsky? He’s a member, to be sure, but a relatively new one and rather a cantankerous one at that.”

“Yes, they’re new. When was it they joined? About a year ago, wasn’t it, when the old lady died and they bought the big center lot in the cemetery? But with their kind of money, they’re important. Surely I don’t have to tell you, Rabbi, that when you’re running an organization like this, you need money. And if you don’t have money – and what synagogue does? – the next best thing is to have members who do.”

“I’ve heard something to that effect. But surely it must be the son, Ben, who has the money.”

Schwarz’s face brightened and he looked straight out at the congregation. Then he leaned toward the rabbi and said, “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But actually the father is everything, and the son, at least while the father is alive, is just a messenger boy.”

“And the father is willing to give and the son is not?”

“You don’t get the picture, Rabbi.” He gestured with his hands spread as if to frame the picture. “The money, they’re both prepared to give. When you accumulate the kind of money they have, you’re prepared to give some of it away. It’s expected of you. It goes with your status like Continentals and a uniformed chauffeur. Now the old man has been a pious Jew all his life. As you know, he comes to the minyan almost every day when the weather permits. So a man like that, his idea of giving away money is to give it to a temple.

“But Ben? Ben is a businessman through and through. When a businessman decides that the time has come to give charity, he views it as a business proposition. He is buying kovod, honor. And naturally he wants to get the most for his kovod dollar. If he uses the money to build a chapel – say the Goralsky Memorial Chapel – who will see it? Who will know about it except the folks here in Barnard’s Crossing? But,” he lowered his voice, “suppose he were to donate a laboratory to Brandeis or even to Harvard? The Goralsky Chemical Research Laboratory? Eh? Scientists and scholars from all over the world would get to hear of it.”

The congregation had quieted as people began to settle down, their eyes now on the altar in anticipation. The rabbi glanced at the clock and said he thought they had better begin.

The two men rose and beckoned the cantor and the vice-president on the other side of the Ark with a nod. The cantor pulled the cord that parted the white velvet curtains in front of the Ark. As he slid back the wooden doors of the Ark to expose the precious Scrolls of the Law, the congregation rose.

The president, reading from a slip of paper, called the names of half a dozen of the more important members of the congregation to come forward, and they ascended the steps to the altar and the cantor handed each of them a Scroll. When all the Scrolls were received, the men clustered around the reading desk facing the congregation and the rabbi recited first in Hebrew and then in English the ancient formula that traditionally introduces the Yom Kippur service: “By the authority of the Court on high, and by the authority of the Court below, by permission of God and by permission of this holy congregation, we hold it lawful to pray with the transgressors.”

Then the cantor began the mournful yet uplifting chant of the Kol Nidre. Three times he would chant the prayer, and by the time he had finished the sun would have gone down and the Day of Atonement, the Sabbath of Sabbaths, would have begun.

“How did the public-address system work out?” asked Miriam as they walked home from the service. “Did it put much of a strain on your voice?”

“Not a bit. I just spoke a little slower.” He chuckled. “But our president was quite upset. Every time he got up to announce the names of those who had honors, they had difficulty hearing him. The Ritual Committee sends out notices indicating the approximate time a man will be called, but we were running a little late and there was some confusion. A Mr. Goldman, who sits well back, didn’t hear his name, so Mr. Schwarz took the next name on the list and that upset the whole schedule. Did you get that bit at the end? When Marvin Brown was called?”

“Yes, what happened?”

“Well, I guess he didn’t hear his name, but instead of calling up a substitute as he had been doing all evening, Schwarz kept repeating the name. I suppose because Marvin is a special friend of his and he didn’t want him to miss his honor, even though it was just to open the Ark. Finally, after he called Mr. Brown, Mr. Marvin Brown, two or three times, the vice-president came over and opened the Ark himself. Our president was a little annoyed with him for it.”

“It seems a small thing to make a fuss about.”

“Mr. Schwarz evidently didn’t consider it so. As a matter of fact, he kept grousing a good part of the evening about the acoustics. At first I thought it was professional jealousy, but then I got the feeling he had something else in mind. Especially when he said something about expecting us at his house tomorrow after we broke our fast. Did Mrs. Schwarz call you?”

“This morning. Ethel invited us for dessert and coffee. Isn’t it the usual custom? Don’t we always go to the president’s house for coffee after Yom Kippur?”

“I guess we do at that. But somehow, when Mr. Wasserman and even Mr. Becker were president, I didn’t think of it as a custom. I felt they asked us over, as they did on other occasions, because they wanted to see us. But I don’t feel it’s quite the same with Mortimer Schwarz. You know, in your present condition, we could easily duck it.”

“There’ll be a lot of other people there, David; we won’t have to stay long. Ethel seemed particularly anxious for us to come. Maybe they’re just trying to be nice and show they want to let bygones be bygones.”

The rabbi looked doubtful.

“You both seemed quite friendly up there on the platform.”

“Naturally, we’re not going to sit there and glare at each other. On the surface everything is fine. We even joke with each other, although it’s apt to be rather patronizing on his part – the way I would imagine he jokes with his junior draftsman. When I answer in kind, I get the feeling he regards it as an impertinence, although of course he wouldn’t say so.”

She was troubled. “Aren’t you perhaps imagining a lot of this because he opposed renewing your contract when it came up before the Board?”

“I don’t think so. There were others who opposed me, and when I was voted my five-year contract they came up to congratulate me. When my five years are up they may oppose me again, but in the meantime, they will remain neutral and work with me. With Schwarz, on the other hand, I have the feeling that if he could get me out tomorrow, he would.”

“But that’s just the point, David, he can’t. You have a five-year contract that has four more years to go. And his term of office is only one year. You’ll outlast him.”

“It really isn’t much of a contract, you know,” he said.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a service contract, which means they can’t drop me as long as I behave myself. What constitutes proper behavior is up to them to decide, while nothing is said about their behavior. They can do all kinds of things against which I have no recourse. Suppose they decide to make some change in the ritual that I couldn’t possibly live with. What happens then? The only thing I could do would be to resign.”

“And you think Schwarz might do something like that?”

“Just to get me out? No. But we could disagree about something, and he might use that as an excuse. And to give him his due, he’d probably feel it was for the good of the congregation.”

Just before midnight the call came in. “Barnard’s Crossing Police Department,” the man at the desk said. “Sergeant Jeffers. Yes, I see… Do you want to give me the name again?… H-I-R-S-H, no C… Mrs. Isaac Hirsh.” He repeated as he wrote, “Bradford Lane… that’s in Colonial Village, isn’t it?… Now what time did he leave?… Well then, what time did you call the lab?… I see… Can you give me a description of the car and the license number?… Any marks on the car?… All right, ma’am, I’ll notify State Police and local police departments to be on the lookout. And I’ll have the cruising car stop by at your house… In a few minutes. Will you put your porch light on, please… We’ll do everything we can, ma’am.”

The patrol car answered his signal right away. “Take this down, Joe. Chevrolet, four-door sedan, light blue, rusty dent on left rear fender. License number 438,972, repeat, 438,972. Isaac Hirsh, 4 Bradford Lane. It’s next to the corner. The porch light will be on. His wife just called in. He works at the Goddard Lab on Route 128. She was out baby-sitting for a neighbor, and when she got back he had gone. Nothing unusual, he’s apt to run down to the lab and work at night. But she called the lab a little while ago and he wasn’t there and hadn’t been there. Stop over and talk to her. See if she’s got a picture of him we can broadcast.”

“Okay, Sarge. Say – Isaac Hirsh – isn’t that the guy who went on a toot some months back and we finally located him in a dive in the South End in Boston?”

“Yeah, come to think of it. I’ll notify Boston police to keep an eye out for him. That’s probably what happened – got thirsty again. When you go over, kind of suggest that she look around and see if anything is missing, like the cooking sherry or his aftershave bay rum. Those guys will drink anything when it hits them.”

“Got it, Sarge.” He turned to his partner. “Let’s go, Tommy boy.”

“What is it, a missing drunk? Why don’t we stop at a couple of places downtown first, The Foc’sle and the Sea and Sand, and see if he’s there.”

“Not that kind of drunk, Tommy. He’s some hot-shot scientist. He don’t drink, except every now and then he goes on a big toot that lasts for days, even weeks. Last time, at least last time we know about on account of the missus calling in, he was missing three days. It must have been all of eight months ago, maybe more. The Boston police finally found him holed up in a filthy little dive of a hotel in the South End. He was lying in bed fully dressed with a pile of dead soldiers on the floor. I don’t think he had eaten in all that time. Mark my words, when we turn him up, it’ll probably be another such place. Ah, here we are, the house with the porch light. I recognize it now, we took him home in the ambulance last time. You wait here in case the sergeant calls in.”

Patricia Hirsh opened the door before he had a chance to ring. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Officer.” Although she was obviously agitated, her voice was controlled.

“Just as soon as we got the message, ma’am.” He took out his notebook and pencil from the thigh pocket of his uniform. “Now, can you tell me what your husband was wearing?”

“Oh.” She went to the hall closet. “A light topcoat – it’s gray, dark gray herringbone. And – no, his hat is here. Underneath he had on a regular business suit – dark brown.”

“And can you give me a description of him, height, weight, and so on?”

“He’s quite plump. He weighs about a hundred and ninety pounds and is about five three.” As he looked up involuntarily, she said, “Yes, he’s shorter than I am. He’s also quite a bit older. He’s fifty-one, and bald,” she added defiantly, “with a moustache.”

“You got a picture of him, ma’am?”

“Yes, upstairs in the bedroom. Would you like me to get it?”

“If you please.” As she started for the stairs, he called after her, “I’ll just give this information to my partner outside so he can call it in right away.”

At the car he asked Tommy if there had been any calls. His partner shook his head, then said: “Better check out the house, Joe. The garage door, I notice it’s down. When we first came on duty about eight o’clock a number of them were up. Probably because so many people were over at the temple.”

“Okay, I’ll check it. Meantime, call in this description.” And after repeating what Mrs. Hirsh had told him, he went back to the house. She was waiting for him with the picture. He took it, studied it for a moment, then said gently, “You haven’t noticed anything missing, have you?”

“I haven’t looked. Like what?”

“Well, like whiskey –”

“We don’t have it in the house.”

“Cooking sherry?”

“I don’t use it.”

“Maybe bay rum or rubbing alcohol?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“All right, ma’am. We get right on to it. Why don’t you just go to bed. I’ll let myself out through the back.”

“That only leads to the garage.”

“Never hurts to look around, ma’am.”

“You’ll call me – no matter what time, won’t you?”

“Sure will.” Making his way through the kitchen to the garage, he opened the back door, and then quickly closed it behind him. The car was in the garage, and on the front seat, on the passenger side, was Isaac Hirsh.

Even slim as he was, it was a tight squeeze for Joe between the wall of the garage and the car, but he managed. He opened the front door and leaned across the driver’s seat to touch the man. By the light of his flashlight he noted the position of the key in the ignition switch. He noted the half-empty vodka bottle. Then he withdrew and closed the car door. Squeezing his way to the front of the garage he raised the overhead door just enough to duck under, and pulled it down after him.

He got into the cruising car, but as the driver started to shift into gear he held onto his hand. “No, Tommy, we’re not going anywhere. I’ve found him. He’s in the garage.”

“Dead to the world?”

“Yeah, only this time it’s for good.”

The daylong Yom Kippur services began at nine with the recital of morning prayers. Only a handful of people were in the temple, mostly the older men, and on the platform only the rabbi was in his seat. Even the cantor had not yet arrived, since it was customary to have someone else lead the morning service to give him a measure of relief. The honor usually went to Jacob Wasserman, the first president of the temple and the man who more than anyone else had organized the congregation. His voice made up in genuine fervor what it lacked in volume, and the rabbi enjoyed his chanting with its traditional quavers and trills more than the studied effects of the cantor who surreptitiously would stoop and tap his tuning fork and hum the pitch before beginning a chant.