Thursday the Rabbi Walked Out (2 page)

The rabbi nodded. “Yes. I expect he would. I don’t know how many would go along with him, but if there were enough to get another synagogue started. I imagine others would follow.”

“That’s the way I see it.” Maltzman agreed. “So it seems to me that this is the time to show some leadership. Now if the rabbi of the congregation were to push for equality, give sermons on it –”

“Don’t count on me. Mr. Maltzman.” said the rabbi quickly.

“You mean you’re against it? But why?” Maltzman was honestly perplexed.

The rabbi smiled. “Put it down to a natural traditionalism, if you like. If we make so drastic a change, other effects what I urge or what the board of directors decrees, if they don’t see ten adult males, they will not regard it as a minyan and they won’t participate in the service.

“As for the honor of being called to the Reading, that’s what it is – an honor. Only a handful at any service are called. Does that mean that the rest of the congregation are discriminated against? It’s really more of a social than religious honor, and there are people who have never been called all their adult lives.”

“What if the congregation as a whole votes for it?” asked Maltzman.

“Ah, that’s something else. If a sizable majority of the congregation wanted it, it would indicate that a major sociological change had taken place in the community and that this was an expression of it.”

Maltzman looked uncertainly from the rabbi to his wife and then said. “How do you feel about it. Mrs. Small?”

Miriam laughed. “To tell the truth. Mr. Maltzman, there have been some terribly cold and snowy days in the winter when David has gotten up early and gone to the temple to insure the likelihood of a minyan; I remember snuggling deeper into the bedclothes and thanking God that I had no such obligation.”

Maltzman grinned. “Yeah, I suppose, all right, I’ll tell them how you feel about it. Rabbi.” His grin broadened. “And how you feel about it. Mrs. Small. It won’t end the matter –”

“I know.” said the rabbi. “My calendar shows a meeting with a delegation from the Sisterhood.” He turned to Miriam. “Perhaps now Mr. Maltzman would like a cup of tea. I would.”

She looked questioningly at Maltzman, and after a moment’s hesitation, he said. “Well, all right. Yes, I think I’d like a cup now.”

Miriam immediately left the room and Maltzman said. “You know. Rabbi. I don’t agree with you. I don’t agree with you at all on this matter. Other congregations, and Conservative congregations at that, have women participating in the follow, quite unforeseen effects, and some of them undesirable. It’s a basic sociological law that you can’t change just one thing.”

“Then you mean you’d be opposed to any change at all?”

“No, I’m not opposed to change as such. But I’m opposed to unnecessary changes. It seems to me that this particular change is part of the present ferment of the Women’s Lib movement, and as happens in the initial stages of any movement, you get all kinds of exaggerated reactions, a men’s club must admit women, or it’s sexist. You mustn’t say ‘Chairman.’ you now have to say ‘Chairperson.’ I was present at a lecture when the speaker used the phrase ‘every man for himself.’ He was challenged by a woman in the audience and had to say ‘every man or woman for himself or herself.’ Ridiculous! Look here, we are an institution going back several thousand years, are we to change because there has been a sudden shift in fashion? Would you have us change the traditional Kol Nidre chant because the musical fashion is rock and roll?”

“But there have been changes. Rabbi.”

“Sure, when it was practical and necessary, the prosbul of Hillel changed the laws of the sabbatic year when it was necessary to carry on the commerce that had developed at the time. Rabbi Gershom changed the marriage and divorce laws. Not to mention the many laws we changed when they became moot with the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. Our own Conservative Movement was launched and developed to meet the challenge of the American experience. Changes were made when needed. But only when needed.”

The rabbi paused and when Maltzman didn’t respond, began again, his voice rising, “They want to be part of the minyan? Why? The minyan is for the purpose of public prayer. It requires a minimum often adult males. If any others want to join, men or women, they are more than welcome. But we just barely make our ten every morning, and it is Kaplan and his group of Orthodox whom we count on. No matter services, they’ve got rabbis, too, so I suppose there are arguments. I mean rabbinic arguments, on the other side.”

“It’s a matter of where you want to put the emphasis,” Rabbi Small agreed affably.

“Well, with me, the emphasis is on membership,” said Maltzman. “I see a lot of our people in the community and they are not members of the temple. This could be just the gimmick that would get some of them to join.”

“Would more join than we’d lose if the Orthodox pulled out?” demanded the rabbi.

“It’s a consideration.” Maltzman admitted.

Miriam came in with the tea, and as she handed Maltzman his cup, she said. “Did you hear what happened at the selectmen’s meeting last night? Was it reported to you?”

He listened intently as the rabbi told of Lanigan’s visit.

“Oh, that sonofabitch, that dirty anti-Semitic sonofabitch – I’m sorry; Mrs. Small, but –”

“You mean, Megrim, the selectman?” asked Rabbi Small.

“Oh no. Megrim is all right. I was referring to Ellsworth Jordon.”

“Why do you call him anti-Semitic?” asked the rabbi. Maltzman glared. “What other reason is there for him to oppose the traffic light? He’s against it because we’re for it. Let me tell you something about Jordon, Rabbi, he owns land all over town and I’m in the real estate business, so I have some sort of contact with him, and not once have I been able to deal with him, he owns land under various titles – Jordon Realty. Ellsworth Estates, E. J. Land Corporation –”

“E. J. Land Corporation?” Miriam echoed.

Maltzman nodded. “That’s right, the company that owns the land near the temple, that we’ve wanted to buy for the new religious school. I wrote E. J. Land Corporation, asking the price of the lot, and I got no answer, no answer at all. So after a while. I asked my good friend Larry Gore at the Barnard’s Crossing Trust, because you write to E. J. Land Corporation care of the bank. I asked him what gives, and he tells me the land is not for sale. So what is it for? Jordon is crazy about paying taxes? He’s planning to farm it?”

“Maybe he’s planning to build,” the rabbi suggested mildly.

“Practically next door to the temple? Nah, he’s crazy but not that crazy. Besides, he hasn’t built in twenty years. Back then he put up some houses – he’s an architect or an engineer of some kind – and sold them at just the right time, then he bought up a lot of land, planning to build lots of houses, big housing projects. But he got sick and didn’t go ahead with it, well, just about then, land values began to climb, they’d built the bridge and the tunnel, so getting into Boston was a matter of thirty or forty minutes, and the town became suitable for all year round living instead of just a summer vacation place for the rich. Land values climbed, and he had acres of it. Some of it could be sold for more than ten times what he paid for it, he’s a crackpot and a nut but –”

“That doesn’t sound like a nut.” Miriam observed.

“Oh, I guess he’s shrewd enough in money matters. But he’s still a nut.” He began to laugh. “Last year I was collecting for the United Appeal and I drew his name, he lives in this old ark of a house all boarded up –”

“On a hill?” asked Miriam.

“That’s right. It’s a great big lot of land with an iron fence all around.”

“The children called it the haunted house.” said Miriam. “Remember. David, when we drove by there? But it’s all boarded up. I didn’t think anybody lived there.”

Maltzman nodded. “That’s because of the trees, but as you come up a long driveway, you see that it’s only the top two floors that are boarded up. I drove up and rang the bell. From inside somebody shouted. ‘Come in, come in.’ So I pushed the door open and found myself in this big room lit by one ceiling light with maybe a twenty-five-watt bulb, then I hear a voice that says. ‘What is it, young man? What do you want? Speak up, young man. State your business.’ Well, I look around and don’t see anyone, and for a minute I thought the voice was coming through a loudspeaker, like in one of those spy films, then. I saw a couple of feet waving in the air, and it was him, he was standing on his head in a corner of the room! Now, is he a nut, or isn’t he?”

“Lives alone, does he?” asked the rabbi.

“Uh-huh, maybe has a day woman come in to cook and clean for him.”

“And he has no family?”

Maltzman shook his head. “So I understand.”

“Then that accounts for it.” said the rabbi. “He doesn’t have anyone he’s responsible to so he doesn’t have to worry about embarrassing anybody, he can say anything he likes, or wear any kind of clothes, stand on his head when he feels like it. Poor devil. I feel sorry for him.”

“But if he’s an anti-Semite. David.” said Miriam.

“What’s this,” sneered Maltzman, “turning the other cheek?”

“Not at all.” said the rabbi. “If it is anti-Semitism, it’s irrational, and sometimes an irrationality can take hold of a man’s mind if there’s no one to oppose him or contradict him or that he has to explain to and then it’s like being possessed by devils, a man shouldn’t be entirely alone. Yes. I’d say he was to be pitied.”

“You mean, if he had a wife or kids, then he’d have to behave himself? Maybe. But it’s been my experience that an anti-Semite is an anti-Semite is an anti-Semite, the only difference is that the one with a family and kids is apt to infect them, too, Right now, the question is the traffic lights.”

“Maybe if I went to see this Jordon.” the rabbi began.

“No! I’ll take care of Jordon and that’s an order.”

The rabbi colored at the peremptory tone, and Miriam lowered her eyes in sympathetic embarrassment. Maltzman noticed and promptly sought to make amends. “What I mean is that a man like Jordon takes a man like me to handle. I mean, it’s a political matter and it takes political experience. Besides. I’m president of the temple, so it’s my baby.”

When Maltzman left. Miriam said, “I don’t think he likes you, David.”

“Really? You mean you think he dislikes me?” She nodded.

“He seemed friendly enough.” He colored and then smiled. “Except at the end there when he gave me my orders, and that was just a manner of speaking with him. I don’t think he really meant it.”

“Oh, he was respectful enough – the way the army officers were always respectful when they talked to the chaplains, he thinks of himself as very much of a he-man. You’re a scholar, and it’s something he doesn’t understand, and he’s wary of it – and hostile.”

“Well, that’s not unusual, his hostility, I mean,” he said philosophically. “I’ve had it from previous presidents, and other members of the congregation, too. Doctors, lawyers, successful businessmen. I suppose they wonder why anyone would become a rabbi. ‘Is this a job for a Jewish boy?’” He laughed. “Maybe they’re right.”

“He could make trouble for you,” she observed.

“Of course he can. Other presidents have. From my first year. But it’s twelve years now, and I’m still here.”

“But it’s different now. David.”

“Why is it different?”

“Because there are new rules now, the board consists of only fifteen. It’s like an executive committee. Eight members could vote you out, and they could do it just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Because all you have is a one-year contract.”

“It’s the way I wanted it,” he said stubbornly. “I don’t ever want to stay longer than I’m wanted.”

“I know, and I understand, but it makes it a little hard to plan ahead.”

Slouched down in his recliner, one long chino-clad leg crossed over the other, a worn laceless sneaker dangling from the upraised bony foot. Ellsworth Jordon reread with satisfaction the report on the selectmen’s meeting in the local newspaper.

“But can I make it stick?” he asked of the empty room. “Or will they vote on it at the next meeting? I think, maybe. I can get Al Megrim to hold. I’ll talk to him about it next time I see him at the club. But he’s only one vote.” He tossed the newspaper on the floor and made a tent of his hands by pressing the fingertips together. “Let’s see, there’s Sturgis, he’ll vote against almost anything that’ll cost the town money. Same as Blair and Mitchener will vote for it,” he added angrily, he got up and began to pace the room. “So that leaves Cunningham, he’s the swing vote.” He faced himself in the wall mirror. “He’s the key. You realize that, don’t you? All right.” Satisfied that he had convinced the image in the glass, he resumed his pacing. “So what do we know about Cunningham? He’s retired, but he gets an occasional commission as the agent for the Steerite Boat Company of Long Island, and the president of that company was here last summer and was crazy to buy my land on the Point.” Once again he stopped in front of the mirror and looked sharply at his image. “Now, what if I were to go down to New York and drop in to see him accidental-like, and mention I might be induced to sell that piece of land if I weren’t so upset about his Mr. Cunningham planning to vote for some unnecessary traffic lights – . How do you suppose he’d respond to that?”

The wrinkled face with the scrawny neck in the mirror smiled back at him, then the pale blue eyes narrowed as he thought of what the trip would involve, he’d have to dress up in a regular suit – with a tie, and shoes, he’d have to pack a bag and drive out to the airport, unless maybe Billy could take the morning off from the bank. But then he’d have to arrange to be met on his return, and what would he do in New York after he’d seen his man – what was his name? Leicester? Yeah, what would he do after he’d seen Mr. Leicester?

The usual was out of the question since Hester was in Europe. So he’d have to sit in his hotel room and watch TV, hell, he could watch TV at home. Besides. Leicester might be out of town. “It’s not worth it,” he announced, and resuming his seat in the recliner, he picked up his newspaper. “Maybe I’ll just talk to Cunningham,” he said.