That Day the Rabbi Left Town

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That Day the Rabbi Left Town

Harry Kemelman

IN MEMORY OF

ARTHUR C. FIELDS,
WHO STARTED ME OFF

AND

SCOTT MEREDITH,
WHO BROUGHT ME ALONG
.

Chapter 1

It was the middle of May and unusually hot for the season as Rabbi David Small of the Barnard's Crossing Temple made ready for his appointment with President Macomber of Windermere College in Boston's Back Bay. He presented himself to his wife, Miriam, for inspection.

“You're going like that? Without a tie?”

“It's a hot day.”

“But you're going to be interviewed for a job,” she protested.

“So what? These days professors lecture in their shirtsleeves and blue jeans.”

“But you're not going to lecture. You're going to see the president for a job.”

“All right, so I'll put on a tie.” He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet.

But she accompanied him to the bedroom to pass on his selection. Although she was fifty years old, Miriam looked like a schoolgirl. Her blond hair, occasionally “touched up” by the hairdresser, was piled up on top of her head as if to get it out of the way. Only the determined set of her chin in her heart-shaped face, and the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, showed her age. Her husband, the rabbi, at fifty-three, did show his age. His dark hair was streaked with gray. He wore thick-lensed glasses that he would push up on his forehead when he pored over a book. He carried his head and shoulders forward in a scholarly stoop.

He took a tie from the rack in the closet. It was already knotted and looped and he was about to put it over his head when she said, “Not that tie. There's a stain on it.”

“So I'll keep my jacket buttoned.”

“No, you'll forget. Put this one on.”

With ill-concealed exasperation, he took the tie she held out to him. Like the first, it was already tied. He put it over his head and pulled the knot up. “Satisfied?” he asked.

“That's much better. You can loosen it now, but be sure to remember to pull it up when you get to the school. Do you have a comb in your jacket pocket?”

“Yes, I have a comb.”

“Because driving with the windows down, your hair will be all messed up.”

“Any other instructions?” he asked sarcastically.

“Yes. You'll be driving in with your collar unbuttoned and your tie pulled down. So when you get to the school, before you leave your car, button your shirt and pull up your tie. And comb your hair in the rearview mirror. You'll be comfortable once you get inside because it's air-conditioned.”

“How do you know it's air-conditioned?”

“They have a Summer Session, so they're bound to have the building air-conditioned. You've got to look right. It's a strange place where you know no one.”

“What do you mean, I know no one? I know the president—”

“How many times did you actually see him? Twice? Three times?”

“And I know Roger Fine.”

“You haven't seen the Fines since they moved to Newton a couple of years ago.”

“And I know that young fellow Jacobs, Mordecai Jacobs, who's engaged to the Lerner girl. And I'll bet there are a bunch of kids from right here in the congregation who go there, and probably some faculty members who live in Barnard's Crossing and have seen me on the street.”

She looked at her watch. “What time is your appointment?”

“Two o'clock.”

“Then you'd better get started right now. It's half past twelve. How are you going?”

“I thought I'd go by the Boston Road; it's pleasanter.”

“But it's fifteen or twenty minutes longer. Better go by the State Road. This time of day, there shouldn't be much traffic.”

“All right, I'll take the State Road. And probably have to sit around in his office waiting for him to see me.”

“It's better than having him sit around waiting for you.”

“It was just by luck,” said President Macomber, “that I learned you were available, else I would have got in touch with you sooner. I haven't forgotten the year you were here substituting for Rabbi Lamden.” He smiled broadly. He was a handsome man whose face was unlined in spite of his white hair. “As I told you on the phone, we are interested in setting up a Judaic Department, not just having you give the course you gave when you substituted for Rabbi Lamden. That was only a matter of public relations.”

“Public relations?”

“That's right. The school was founded in the middle of the last century as a two-year ladies' seminary. And it was called Windermere Ladies' Christian Seminary not because it was in any way denominational or religious—oh, they may have had chapel once a week—but to assure parents that it was a sober, sedate institution and that no high jinks were tolerated. When we became a four-year college and coeducational, albeit largely a fallback school for those who had applied elsewhere and been turned down, we began to attract students from out of state, especially from New York and New Jersey, many of whom were Jews. My predecessor thought it would help matters if we listed a course in Judaic Philosophy and had a rabbi give it. I gather that over the years only Jewish students took it, just as only black students ever register for the course in Black Studies that Reverend Johnson gives. I don't know what the students got out of it other than high marks; A's or at least B's were practically assured.”

“Yes, I suspected as much after a couple of sessions,” the rabbi said, and then with grim satisfaction, “They quickly realized that I wasn't having it, and that they'd have to work to pass the course.”

Macomber nodded. “That's because you were rather old-fashioned in your attitude towards collegiate education: you thought the teacher should teach. By that time the idea had developed that the function of the professor was not to teach, but to engage in research and publish papers in learned journals on his findings. And so his teaching load was cut back to give him more time for research, and if he was prestigious, he did almost no teaching at all. The one or two courses listed in his name in the catalog were apt to be taught by graduate assistants. The college was an ivory tower in which the student profited by being exposed to the atmosphere, I suppose, which is why the students were permitted to take any courses they chose, with no thought that there was a body of knowledge that they had to acquire. Under my predecessor, Windermere went in for that sort of thing; it was the fashion. Still is to a great extent, I suppose. When I came, the Board of Trustees had the same idea, but now I have a board that is inclined to go along with my thinking that teachers should teach and students should learn. And I want our students to have an understanding of how their thinking developed, of the influences that shaped it.

“As a historian I am aware of the importance of Judaic thought in the shaping of Western civilization. During Puritan times it was considered a major influence along with those of Greece and Rome. But after a while Hebrew was dropped from the curriculum, and then Greek and then Latin. Nowadays colleges are more apt to offer a course in Women's Studies or Black Studies. It proves that the institution is modern and free of prejudice. They tend to be snap courses, as is any course given with an ulterior motive, thus ensuring a sizable enrollment. But I want our students to have some understanding of the forces that served to develop our present civilization, and I consider Judaic thought to be one of the major ones.”

“You mean it would be a required course?”

“Perhaps in the future,” he said cautiously. “Right now, I am planning to develop a core curriculum of what the student should study rather than the free and easy elective system we have now whereby the student can manage to get a degree by taking a number of unrelated courses which he selects because the teacher is reputed an easy marker, or because the course comes at a convenient hour, or—or for whatever reason other than because it is something he should know.”

“But what do you want me to do this year?”

“Whatever you think is necessary,” Macomber replied promptly. “You might give the same course you gave when you were last here. Or you could start with a seminar for students who have some knowledge of the subject. Or give no course at all for the first semester, but use the time to plan your program. All I ask is that you make yourself available for several hours every day so that you can be consulted by interested students or by faculty, especially from the History and Philosophy departments.”

“Once I come in, I'll probably spend most of the day here, except that during the winter months I might want to leave a little earlier to avoid driving after dark.”

“You'll be driving in every day?”

“I plan to.”

“Well, if you find it taxing, I'm sure you can make arrangements with one of the faculty who live in your town and drive in with him. Let's see, Roger Fine, whom you helped so much when you were last here, I'm sure he'd be glad to give you a lift in every morning.”

“The Fines have moved to Newton. And in any case, I wouldn't ask him just because he'd feel obligated.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.” He thought a moment and then said, “I can get a list of faculty members who live on the North Shore: Barnard's Crossing or Swampscott or Salem, and you could contact them and perhaps arrange with one of them to pick you up.”

“Please don't bother. I drove in this afternoon and it was quite pleasant. Of course, if the weather is bad …” He shrugged. “I can always take the bus. It stops at my street. It takes a little longer because it goes by way of the Boston Road. Or I could drive over to the Swampscott station and take the train if time is short.”