The Rabbi (34 page)

“How much?”

Levitt shrugged. “Five-ten thousand.”

Dave appeared to think carefully for a few moments. “I don't think so,” he said finally. “I think services like these are fine and I'd like to join you again some time. But it doesn't pay to try to develop too fast. I think we should wait until there are more members, so everyone can feel he has an equal stake in the purchase of the buildin' and the hirin' of the rabbi.”

They stood clustered around him, reluctant to turn away, with carbon-copy expressions of blank disappointment on their faces.

Saturday night Schoenfeld won one hundred thirty-one dollars playing poker. “What's this new industry doin' to our labor pool?” he asked.

“Nothin',” said the Judge.

“You let a few more factories into this town and labor's goin' to start grabbin' us by the short hair,” Dave said.

Nance Grant bit the tip from a thick black cigar and spat the tatter to the floor. “Nobody else is comin' in. We let in just enough to help us a little with some of the chores.”

Schoenfeld was puzzled. “Since when do we need help? And with what?”

The Judge rested a manicured hand lightly on his arm. “You've been away a while, Davey boy. Damn government's goin' to be givin' us more trouble than the five-year itch. Won't hurt us any to have some friends around to fight off the socialists.”

“Our expenses goin' up all the time, too,” Nance said. “Be kinda nice to share some of 'em.”

“What kind of expenses?”

“Well, Billy Joe Raye, for one. He's a preacher. Fire an' brimstone an' the layin' on of hands.”

“A faith healer?” Schoenfeld asked. “Why should we pay his way?”

The Sheriff cleared his throat. “Damned if he don't keep 'em in line for us better'n cheap whiskey.”

Schoenfeld refused one of Nance's stogies with thanks and took a Havana from his inside pocket. “Well,” he said, puffing on the match as he built the ash, “it can't cost us a hell of a lot for one preacher.”

The Judge looked at him calmly. “Hundred grand.”

They all grinned at the expression on his face.

“He's got an air-conditioned tent costs nearly that much alone,” Sunshine said. “
An
' a radio program.
An
' tee-vee.”

“What we gave him is just a grubstake. His collections are already big enough to keep him just fine,” Nance said. “And the more this town builds a reputation as a religious, God-fearing community, the better off we are.”

“Goddam it, it don't have to
build
a reputation,” the Judge said. “This
is
that kind of community. Hell, now even the Jews are holding prayer meetin's.” There was a small silence. “I beg your pardon,” he said to Dave with courtly grace.

“No apology needed,” Schoenfeld said easily.

That night he telephoned Ronnie Levitt. “I haven't been able to get the temple out of my mind,” he said. “What do you say we get together again and talk it over?”

They found a small cottage in good repair and bought it, Dave and Ronnie putting up five thousand dollars apiece for the purchase of the building and the two-acre lot of land. It was understood that the rest of the congregation would contribute a sum sufficient to pay for renovations and the salary of the rabbi.

Ronnie Levitt hesitantly suggested that the temple be named Sinai. Dave shrugged and nodded. There were no voices of dissent.

“I'm goin' to New York next month to have a talk with the paper's national reps,” Schoenfeld said. “I'll see what I can do about findin' us a rabbi.”

He had exchanged correspondence with a man named Sher, and when he got to New York he called the Union of American Hebrew Congregations and invited the rabbi to lunch the next day. Only after he said good-by did it occur to him that the clergyman might be restricted to kosher food.

But when they met in the office of the Union of American Hebrew Congregations, Rabbi Sher made no mention of where they should eat. Downstairs, in the taxi, Dave leaned toward the driver and said, “Voisin.” He glanced quickly at Rabbi Sher but saw nothing in his face but repose.

At the restaurant he ordered crêpes stuffed with lobster. The rabbi ordered chicken
sauté echalote
, and Dave grinned and told him that he had worried about not selecting a Jewish restaurant. “I eat everything but shellfish,” Sher said.

“Is there a rule?”

“No, no. Just the way I was raised. Every Reform rabbi makes up his own mind.”

During the meal they spoke of the new temple.

“What will it cost us to hire a new rabbi?” Schoenfeld asked.

Rabbi Sher smiled. He spoke a name familiar to two-thirds of the Jews in the United States. “For him, fifty thousand dollars a year. Perhaps more. For a young fellow just out of rabbinical school, six thousand. For an older rabbi who has had many congregations without being kept on, six thousand. For a good man with a couple of years of experience under his belt, perhaps ten thousand.”

“We can forget about the great man. Can you recommend a name or two from the other categories?”

The rabbi carefully broke his crusty roll. “I know somebody who is very good. He served briefly as an assistant in a large congregation in Florida and then he had his own circuit congregation in Arkansas. He's young and energetic and personable and extremely bright.”

“Where is he now?”

“Here in New York. He is teaching Hebrew to children.”

Schoenfeld shot him a keen look. “Full-time?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He's had some difficulty in finding a congregation. Several
months ago he married a young woman who is a convert from Christianity.”

“A Catholic?”

“I believe not.”

“I don't think the marriage would bother us any,” Schoenfeld mused. “We live very closely with our Christian neighbors. And as long as the man is in a tight spot, we should be able to get him for seven thousand, wouldn't you say?”

Something, Schoenfeld couldn't tell just what, flitted quickly across the rabbi's features and then was gone. “That will have to be between you and the young man,” Sher said politely.

Schoenfeld took out a small leather-covered notebook and his pen. “What is his name?”

“Rabbi Michael Kind.”

 

26

They bought a blue Plymouth convertible, two years old and with a set of almost-new tires, from a dealer in the Bronx. Then they drove back to the apartment on West 60th Street and made arrangements to have Leslie's desk and their combined library of books sent to them Railway Express.

There was a last, uncomfortable dinner with his parents, an evening which dragged with the weight of things past said and unsaid. (“You damn fool,” his father had cried when he had broken the news, “you don't
marry
them!” And he had seen sudden lights in Abe Kind's eyes behind the shadows of despair, the flickering of flame in coals of guilt that had been banked for years.) Throughout the evening Dorothy and Leslie chatted about recipes. When finally they kissed good-by, Dorothy was dry-eyed and preoccupied. Abe wept.

Next morning they drove to Hartford.

Inside the Hastings Congregational Church they sat in the gloom of a hallway on an old walnut bench until the Reverend
Mr. Rawlins came out of his office, saying good-by to a young man and a young woman.

“Small weddings are the best kind,” he was saying as he walked them to the door. “The warmest and the most sensible.”

He looked at them, sitting there. “Well, Leslie,” he said, his tone unchanged.

Michael and Leslie stood up. She introduced them.

“Will you have tea?”

He ushered them into his study and they sat and had tea and cookies served by a poker-faced middle-aged woman. They exchanged uncomfortable small talk.

“Remember the spice cookies Aunt Sally used to make?” Leslie asked her father as the tea things were removed. “Sometimes I think of her and I can taste them.”

“Spice cookies?” he said. He turned to Michael. “Sally was my sister-in-law. A good woman. Died two years ago.”

“I know,” Michael said.

“She left Leslie one thousand dollars. Do you still have that money, Leslie?”

“Yes,” Leslie said. “Yes, I do.”

The minister wore rimless glasses; behind them his pale blue eyes observed Michael.

“Do you think you will like the South?”

“I've spent several years in Florida and Arkansas,” Michael said. “I think that people are people, everywhere.”

“As one grows older one begins to note significant differences.”

They were silent. “Well,” Leslie said, “we must be going.” She kissed the smooth white cheek. “Take care of yourself, father.”

“The Lord will take care of me,” he said, showing them to the door.

“He will take care of us, too,” Michael said. His father-in-law appeared not to have been listening.

Two days later Leslie and Michael drove into Cypress, Georgia, on a hot afternoon in early summer that foretold what the deep season in that town would be like. In the main square, the heat shimmered in visible waves from the bronze surface of the equestrian statue of General Thomas Mott Lainbridge. Michael
idled the car next to the grassy rotary which bore the statue, and they squinted at it through the bright sunshine. They could make out only the name.

“Ever hear of him?” he asked Leslie.

She shook her head. He pulled over to the curb. Four teenaged boys lounged outside the drugstore in the shade of the awning.

“Sir,” Michael said to one of them. He stuck his thumb at General Thomas Mott Lainbridge. “Who was he?”

The boy looked at his friends and they grinned. “Lainbridge.”

“Not his name,” Leslie said. “What did he do?”

One of the boys left the shade and walked slowly to the statue. He pushed his face near the plaque at its base and paused, his lips moving soundlessly. Then he returned. “Commandin' General, Second Georgia Fusiliers.”

“Fusiliers were infantry,” Leslie said. “What's he doing on a horse?”

“Ma'am?”

“We thank you,” Michael said. “Do you know where we can find Eighteen Piedmont Road?”

It was a three-minute drive. It turned out to be a small green house with a sagging porch and a weedy lawn. The windows were unwashed.

“It looks nice,” she said uncertainly.

He kissed her cheek. “Welcome home.” He stood in the front seat of the convertible and searched the street ahead, looking on the odd-numbered side because the temple was number 45. He was unable to guess which of the buildings down the street might be his new responsibility.

“Wait a minute,” she said. She got out of the car and ran lightly up the steps. The front door was unlocked. “You go ahead,” she said. “See it for the first time by yourself. Then come right back to me.”

“I love you,” he told her.

The numerals had been removed when Sinai had been painted, and he drove past the temple without knowing. But 47 was plainly marked on the house next door and he turned the car around and parked in the temple driveway. There was no sign. There would have to be a sign, small and dignified.

As he entered, he took a
yarmulka
from his back pocket and put it on.

Inside, it was cooler. Interior walls had been ripped out to make a large room for the sanctuary. The kitchen and the bathroom had been retained, and there were two small rooms off the central hallway which would be suitable for a general office and a rabbi's study. The floors were freshly varnished; he walked down a path of newspapers which led from room to room.

There was no
bema
, but an ark stood against one wall. He opened it and saw that it contained a Torah. On the velvet cover was a thin silver tag which informed him that the Torah had been donated by Mr. and Mrs. Ronald G. Levitt in memory of Samuel and Sarah Levitt. He stroked the scroll and then kissed his fingertips the way his grandfather had taught him so long ago.

“Thank you for this, my first temple,” he said aloud. “I will try to make it truly a house of the Lord.” The sound of his voice bounced back at him hollowly from the bare walls. Everything smelled of paint.

Number 18 Piedmont Road was not painted. Nor had it been washed for a long time. Dust covered everything. Small red spiders moved on the ceilings overhead, and a long white smear of dried bird-droppings defaced the front window.

Leslie had found a pail. She had filled it with water and placed it on the gas range, which she was trying in vain to ignite.

“There's no hot water,” she said. “We need a mop and a scrub brush and soap. I'd better make a list.”

Her voice was too calm, tipping him off about what to expect as he moved through the house. The furniture was summer-cottage borax and needed more than paint. A rung was missing from one of the rickety chairs, and another chair lacked a section of its back. In the bedroom, the stained brown mattress was folded back, exposing rusty and sagging springs. The wallpaper appeared to be ante-bellum.