Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry (6 page)

The congregation kept drifting in all morning. Shortly after the cantor took his seat, Mortimer Schwarz appeared. He shook hands ceremoniously with the rabbi, and then crossed over to shake hands with the cantor. He returned to his seat and whispered that, just as he had expected, Marvin Brown called last night.

“You mean about the honor he missed?”

“Well, Rabbi, he didn’t come right out and say so, but I know that’s what it was.”

“I wouldn’t have thought it meant so much to him.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’s particularly religious. But he’s a salesman first, last, and always. And, something like that, he builds it up in his mind as kind of good luck. And if he should somehow miss out, it could throw him off stride. Do you understand?”

“I can understand how he might feel that way,” said the rabbi.

“Well, I don’t mind saying I felt Ely Kahn kind of jumped the gun by going ahead and opening the Ark when Marvin didn’t come down right away. Nothing terrible would have happened if we’d waited a few minutes. Anyway, today I’m going to be extra careful. I’ll call out these names good and loud, and we’ll wait until we’re sure the person is not in the temple before picking a substitute.”

By a quarter past ten, when the Scrolls were removed from the Ark for the Reading, the sanctuary was full. Some chose to regard this point in the service as a recess; and while a few left, most remained. For the Memorial Service for the Dead that followed, the Yizkor service, the sanctuary filled up again. Many came just for this portion out of a sense of respect for departed members of their immediate family. Traditionally it was considered bad luck for anyone whose parents were alive to be present, but the rabbi, like most Conservative rabbis, felt this to be idle superstition. He began by explaining that it was proper for all to attend, that since those who had died in the Nazi holocaust were going to be memorialized, everyone could consider himself bereaved; but here and there he could see some of the older congregants brought up in Orthodoxy urge their children to leave.

However, after Yizkor he could not help feeling pleased to note a large portion of the young people return, presumably to hear his sermon. One portion of the Holy Day service described the way the High Priest of ancient times purified himself and his family before making the sacrifice to atone for the sins of his people. The sermon discussed this portion of the service, comparing this with the attempted sacrifice of Isaac by Abraham – a reference to the New Year Reading on Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of the ten Days of Awe. With many a rabbinic allusion, he explained that the sacrifice of Isaac was a stern injunction against the human sacrifice that was universally practiced at the time, and then went on to show how the whole concept of sacrifice and atonement had gradually changed from sacrificing a live scapegoat to the modern attitude toward prayer, which meant begging forgiveness – from the Lord for sins committed against Him as well as from individuals for sins committed against them.

As in all his sermons, the tone and style was instructional and informal, like a college lecture. He himself thought of his sermons as theses in which he attempted to explain seeming contradictions in the Law, rather than as exhortations. He knew some members of the congregation, including the president, grew restive during his discourse, and would have preferred a more oratorical, hortative style, but he felt his type of sermon was more in keeping with his basic function of teacher, implicit in the word “rabbi.”

The service continued, the day wore on; people came and left, some to go home for a nap or perhaps even a hurried snack, while outside, boys and girls stood about in their new clothes, laughing and flirting. The very young played on the temple grounds, their high shrill voices sometimes disturbing the decorum inside, requiring one of the ushers to go out and lecture them for making noise while the service was in progress.

At four o’clock, it became apparent that they were proceeding too rapidly and the service was in danger of ending before sunset. The rabbi approached the reading desk, “We’re running ahead of time, Cantor Zimbler. Can you slow it down?”

The cantor shrugged his shoulders. “What do you want me to do, Rabbi, hold the notes longer?”

The rabbi smiled. Then: “I guess we’d better have a recess.” He announced that the congregation was praying with such fervor that they were outrunning the sun. “So we’ll have a half-hour break.”

There was a murmur of grateful laughter from the congregation but only a few left since those present at that hour represented the hard core of worshipers who came with the intention of remaining through the day. But they appreciated the respite and engaged their neighbors in a few minutes’ conversation before returning to the concluding portion which ended with the blowing of the shofar.

The president stretched on his thronelike chair and turned to the rabbi. “You know, apropos of your sermon, it occurs to me I made a sacrifice of my own. This is the first year in a long time that I have fasted, and I feel fine, just fine. Other years, I didn’t exactly eat, I mean, I didn’t have a regular meal. I’d have some juice in the morning, and then around noon I might go home for a cup of coffee and a sandwich, but this year I felt, being president, I ought to go the distance. And though I feel a little weak, otherwise I’m just fine.”

“Mr. Goralsky told me he had been doing it for seventy-five years, and it doesn’t appear to have hurt him any.”

“Gosh, I forgot all about the old man. Have you heard how he is? I haven’t seen Ben around.”

“I’m sure he hasn’t been here or I would have seen him.”

“That sounds bad, Rabbi. The old man must be very sick – Ben would have come for Yizkor at least, with his mother dead only recently, within the year.”

“Not necessarily. They’re quite Orthodox and according to custom those recently bereaved, who are still in the year of mourning, do not attend the Yizkor service.”

“That so? Then, maybe that’s it. I certainly hope so.”

The rabbi regarded him curiously. “Are you really so sure of getting a large contribution from Mr. Goralsky?”

“I’ve talked to the old man – informally, you know,” Schwarz said smugly. “No definite promise, of course, but I can tell he’s receptive to the idea.”

“And how big a contribution do you hope for?”

Schwarz looked at him in some surprise. “I told you about it last night, Rabbi. A memorial chapel.”

“You mentioned it, but I thought it was just by way of example. You mean he really is interested in building a Goralsky Memorial Chapel? What kind of money would be involved?”

“Oh, a hundred thousand dollars – to a hundred and a half.”

The rabbi pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “They’re in electronics?”

“That’s right, electronics and transistors. They’ve got a big new plant on Route 128. They’re loaded. Right now, I understand, they’re planning to merge with some big outfit out West, and their stock has been going up like a sky-rocket. It’s doubled in the last couple of weeks. And they started in the poultry business.”

“The poultry business?”

“The absolute truth. My grandmother used to buy fresh-killed chickens from their store in Chelsea, and the old man himself used to wait on her in a blood-smeared white apron and a straw hat. Then they got a little ahead of themselves and began to gamble in futures and made quite a bit of money. So they had spare money when a chance came to invest in a transistor company and they were on their way. They bought out their partner, the man who started the business, and after that they really began to expand. They were lucky enough to go public right at the boom, and the rest is financial history. Maybe you saw the write-up on Ben Goralsky in Time magazine?”

The rabbi shook his head.

“A column and a half plus picture. I tried to put him on the Board, but he said he was too busy.” He sounded gloomy.

“And do you think if you got him on the Board he might be inclined to favor a chapel over a chemistry lab?”

“At least it would get him interested in our organization and its problems.”

“But do we need a chapel? It seems to me we have plenty of room right now –”

Schwarz looked at him. “Rabbi, a growing organization never has plenty of room. If it’s enough for today, then it’s not enough for tomorrow. Besides, next to the high school, our sanctuary is the biggest auditorium in town. Once or twice in the past we’ve been asked for the loan of our facilities by outside organizations. Now, how does it sit with you to have a secular organization like Kiwanis, say, transacting their business right here in front of the Holy Ark?”

“Well –”

“But suppose we had a small chapel built right onto the wall behind us, a small jewel of a chapel that you could tell was a chapel and not a barracks or a light and power company office building?”

“You don’t like this building?”

Schwarz smiled condescendingly. “Remember, Rabbi, I’m an architect by profession. Look, are you and Miriam coming over tonight after you break your fast? Ethel is expecting you.”

“If Miriam is up to it.”

“Good. I’ll show you something that will knock your eye out.”

From where she was sitting, Miriam signaled her husband with a nod. He left the pulpit and joined her as she made her way out of the sanctuary.

“Something wrong, dear?”

“I feel a little done in. I guess I’ve got used to napping in the afternoon. Alice Fine is going home, and I thought I’d get a ride with her.”

“You’ll make yourself some tea, won’t you? Or perhaps a glass of warm milk would be even better. I think you should eat something. You sure you’re all right?”

“Believe me, David, I feel fine.”

“Anything wrong?” asked Schwarz when the rabbi returned to the pulpit. He told him Miriam felt a little tired.

“Well, it’s understandable. I hope she’s not fasting.”

“She was, but she promised to eat something.”

The sun began to set, and many of those who had left earlier returned to take part in the final congregational confession of sins, “We have trespassed, we have been faithless… ” and to ask once again for forgiveness, “Our God and God of our fathers, pardon our iniquities on this Day of Atonement… Accept, O Lord our God, thy people Israel and their prayer… “

The sun set as they began to read responsively the Ovenu Malkenu, “Our Father, our King.” Then in a voice of fervor and exultation, they declaimed, “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is One,” followed by “Blessed be His Name, whose glorious Kingdom is forever and ever,” recited three times. Then seven times, the cantor and the congregation exclaimed, “The Lord, He is God,” each time louder and more passionately, the last time climaxed by a long blast – eerie, piercing, and exultant – of the shofar, the ram’s horn, signifying the end of the long day of Atonement and the ten Days of Awe.

The Mourner’s Kaddish remained to be said, and a benediction by the rabbi, but the members of the congregation were already folding their prayer shawls and shaking hands with their neighbors and wishing them a healthy and happy New Year.

The rabbi shook hands with Mortimer Schwarz, with the cantor, and with the vice-president.

“See you tonight, Rabbi?” asked Schwarz.

“If Miriam feels well enough.”

Reluctantly Jordan Marcus went to the telephone, but before picking up the instrument he made one more appeal. “I tell you, Liz, I still don’t think we ought to get mixed up in this. We’re new members, for one thing.”

“So?” his wife said. “You paid your dues, didn’t you?”

“You know damn well I did, and don’t think that hundred bucks didn’t hurt plenty, plus fifty bucks on top of that for two tickets –”

“So? So what did you want to do on the High Holidays? Go to the movies?”

“You didn’t even have to show your tickets. We could have just walked in –”

“And when you got in you’d be invisible? The Levensons, the Baylisses – they wouldn’t see you? And wouldn’t know you’re not a member?”

“We could have gone to my folks’ place in Chelsea. It would have cost me ten bucks apiece for the tickets, and I would have saved myself a hundred and thirty bucks.”

“And next year, when Monte has to start religious school, you’d take him to Chelsea three days a week, I suppose.”

“So we could have joined next year. And that’s a sweet little racket, by the way, making you join the temple so your kids can go to the religious school.”

“They all do it, all the new temples. I guess they got to. Besides what’s the difference if we join this year or next year?”

“A hundred and thirty bucks’ difference.”

“You want everybody to know you only joined at the last minute because you had to? You want everybody to think we’re cheap?”

“Well, by God, I’d just as soon. I’m getting sick and tired of worrying about whether people think I’m cheap. I put in wall-to-wall broadloom for almost a thousand bucks so people wouldn’t think I was cheap; I swapped the Chevy for a Pontiac so people wouldn’t think I was cheap; and when Henry Bayliss suggests going to the Checkerboard for a bite after the movie, I got to say, Fine – swell idea, because if I mention someplace where you can get a hamburg and coffee for under a buck, that means I’m cheap.”

“So? That’s gracious living. You’re in Barnard’s Crossing now. When in Rome you got to do like the Romans. We got a responsibility to the kids, and that’s why you joined the temple. But now that you’re a member in good standing, you got rights like anybody else. So stop stalling and call the rabbi.”

“But, Liz, he’s just got back from the temple. He’s probably at dinner and must be starved. Besides, there’s more involved than you realize. The bylaws say you got to be a bona fide member to be buried in the cemetery. Now you want me to ask the rabbi to forget the bylaws and make an exception for a friend of mine whose wife isn’t even Jewish. That’s what I mean I’m a new member. To ask a favor like this, you got to be one of the big shots. If it were a relative of mine, that’s one thing. But this guy Hirsh, I hardly knew him. Maybe all the time we’ve been living here I’ve said Hello to him three times. I say we shouldn’t get involved.”