Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home (26 page)

The rabbi looked down at Miriam. “You see.” he whispered. “I can bend a little.”

“And it works.” she whispered back.

“Why may we eat only bitter herbs… dip our food twice… eat while leaning?” Mr. Wasserman plucked at the rabbi’s sleeve, and he leaned over to hear what the old man was saying. The tape recorder whirred on.”… beg off from that dinner, will you. Miriam. Fib a little if you have to.” It was the rabbi’s voice.

There was a roar of laughter from the assembled company, and Miriam hastily reached forward and shut off the machine. The rabbi blushed and said. “We will now read in unison…”

Dinner was served, a traditional festive meal, beginning with gefilte fish and chicken soup. As soon as it was over, a number left, pleading that their children were tired and falling asleep at the table, but most stayed on for the rest of the service with its prayers, benedictions and ceremonial songs. At last the fourth cup of wine was drunk, and the president announced. “The order of the Passover is now accomplished and prescribed according to all its laws and customs…” and then all called out in loud and joyous voices the traditional fervent hope expressed for centuries by Jews all over the world at the end of the Passover service: “Next year in Jerusalem.”

The rabbi leaned over and whispered to Miriam, “Why not?”

“What?”

“The way things look, we’ll be free next year. Why not spend it in Jerusalem?”

“You’ve heard the minutes of the previous meeting. Any corrections or additions? Chair recognizes Mr. Sokolow.”

“Seems to me we spent most of the meeting arguing about a new contract for the rabbi, but there wasn’t a word of it in the minutes.”

“You left early, Harry.” said Gorfinkle. “It was decided not to mention it in the minutes for obvious reasons. What if the rabbi were here today? It might be embarrassing.”

“Well, so how do I know what happened?”

“I appointed a committee with Al Becker as chairman – maybe you’d like to fill him in. Al.”

“Sure.” Becker got up and walked to the head of the table. “We discussed mostly the terms of the contract. Some of the guys thought we ought to just make it for another five years, with a raise, of course. But there was a lot of sentiment for a lifetime contract, too. For that we’d have to discuss it with the rabbi himself.”

“So how’d you make out with the rabbi?” asked Harry Sokolow.

“Well, we decided not to speak to him just yet,” said Becker. “See, something came up that I think we ought to hash out first.” He cleared his throat. “At the end of this year, as many around this table may not realize, the rabbi will be rounding out his sixth year with us. So the new contract will be starting the seventh year. Well, a lot of congregations give their rabbi the seventh year as a sabbatical. So we on the committee didn’t want to get caught short if the rabbi raises that question without knowing beforehand the pleasure of this board. Speaking for myself, I’m all for offering it to him even before he asks.”

Immediately there was a storm of discussion. “Plenty of temples don’t give sabbaticals.”

“In my brother’s place they gave their rabbi a sabbatical last year, sure, but he had been there twenty years already.”

“Teachers get them.”

“Yeah, but only if they’re going to do some special study.”

“My wife tells me she heard the rebbitizin say they wanted to go to Israel. That seems a reasonable project for a sabbatical for a rabbi.”

“What does he need it for? After all, he gets the whole summer off. I should be so lucky.”

Mr. Wasserman was recognized. “The seventh year is a special time. It’s like the Sabbath year. What is the Sabbath? It’s something we invented, no? Six days you work, and on the seventh day you rest. Used to be people worked the whole seven days. So it’s ours – an invention. And the whole world accepted it – you should take one day in the week a rest. The only one who doesn’t get a rest one day in seven is the rabbi. On the Sabbath, when we get off, he works. And on the days we work he works, too. He’s a scholar, our rabbi, so that every day he’s at his studies. And when he’s not studying, he’s called different places to speak, or he goes to committees. And all the time, seven days a week, he’s still got the congregation. One day a Bar Mitzvah, the next day a wedding or, God forbid, a funeral. So the only way he can have a rest is if he goes away from the congregation and the community for a while where he won’t have to give sermons or be on committees or have to answer all kinds of questions. So I say, we should offer him this Sabbath if he asks for it, because I tell you the rabbi needs a rest sometimes from his congregation.”

No one said anything, and then Paff muttered something in his deep bass to Doc Edelstein.

“What’s that?” Gorfinkle looked up. “Did you say something. Mr. Paff?”

Paff raised his big voice and said. “All I said was that goes double – sometimes the congregation needs a rest from the rabbi.”

Brennerman laughed. Edelstein chuckled. Jacobs guffawed. Then they all laughed and kept on laughing. And Gorfinkle said. “You may have something there. Meyer, By God. I think this time you really hit the nail on the head.”

About the Author

Born in Boston. Massachusetts in 1908, Harry Kemelman was the creator of perhaps one of the most famous religious sleuths: Rabbi David Small. His writing career began with short stories for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine featuring New England college professor Nicky Welt, the first of which, “The Nine Mile Walk,” is considered to be a classic (the Welt stories were later grouped into a collection with the same title). The Rabbi Small series began in 1964, with Friday the Rabbi Slept Late. It went on to become a bestseller, and won Kemelman an Edgar for “Best First Novel” in 1965. Kemelman died in 1996.

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