One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross

by Harry Kemelman

  “Yes, sir. Next month or the month after?”

  “Even better. You might look through my engagement book and suggest a couple of dates.”

  “Very good.”

  He glanced at another letter, and tossing it across the desk, said, “The usual on this one. And on this one. And likewise on this one, but a little more buttery.”

  Her thin lips twisted into a smile. “The best grade of butter?”

  “I would say so. The man is a professor. Make it sound as though I know of him, or am at least familiar with his work, if he’s done any. Look him up and see if he has. On this one—no, hold off. I’ll be talking to him in a day or two. Let’s see, that’s about it. You’ll have the tape on my last lecture typed up, won’t you?”

  “I’ll finish it tomorrow and I’ll have these ready for your signature at the same time. I’m leaving now.”

  As she opened the door, a young man who had been waiting in the outer office rose and said, “I am Albert Houseman. I have an appointment with Professor El Dhamouri.”

  She turned to the professor and said, “A Mr. Houseman? He says he has an appointment.”

  “Oh, yes, send him in.”

  She stood aside for him to enter, and then called out, “Till tomorrow, then.”

  He was about thirty-five, short and thin, with eyes so dark they seemed all pupil. His nose was long and thin and parrotlike and seemed to bisect his black moustache. The professor went to the outer door, poked his head out, and looked down the corridor at the retreating figure of his secretary. Then he closed the door, set it on the latch, and returned to his seat behind the desk and surveyed his visitor, taking note of his tweed jacket, pressed slacks, and his polished brown loafers, and said, “Jeans and sneakers would have been better.”

  Houseman said, “I thought in the East, especially at Harvard, I’d be less noticeable if I were properly dressed.”

  “Well, we’re improving—a little—but most graduate students would still be apt to wear jeans. Your name is?”

  “Abdul Ibn Hosni, but I Americanized it—officially.”

  “That’s the name Ibrahim used when he called to tell me you were coming. He probably forgot that you had changed it—officially.”

  “It’s what he always calls me.”

  “And you’re staying …?”

  “As you suggested, at the Holiday Inn.”

  “For how long?”

  “That depends on you. If you can help us, I’ll go back as soon as everything is arranged. If you can’t, I notify Ibrahim, who will have an alternative plan that I may have to implement.”

  “I see. Ibrahim told me very little of what was involved. He said you would fill me in. All I know is that he wants something transmitted to his brother, Mahmoud, in Jerusalem. He suggested that if we were going to be together for a while, I could pass you off as a graduate student in my department. Normally I would have had you stay at my house as my guest, but I sensed—more from his tone than from what he said—that the matter is of—er—very serious importance. That’s why I suggested you stay at a hotel and come to see me here rather than at my house. My house may be watched.”

  “By whom?” Ibn Hosni asked quickly.

  El Dhamouri shrugged and smiled. “By the FBI, by Mossad, by the PLO, by almost anyone. Any Arab who achieves some prominence here in the States and who continues to be Arab is apt to be approached by any one of a dozen Arab organizations for help with some special project, for a contribution, for permission to use his name on a petition, or just for a handout. So I assume that my house may be watched from time to time, and I’m careful about whom I invite. But here, my office is at least semi-public. Anyone can drop in, and dozens do. There’s safety in numbers. Perhaps I’m a little paranoid. If a Jew enrolls in one of my courses, I suspect he might be an agent of Mossad. And if it’s an Arab, I wonder is he really Arab and which faction, one of Arafat’s boys or one of the Syrians? Is he Lebanese or Jordanian, or maybe even a Libyan? It’s not a good way to live, Abdul.”

  The younger man shrugged and spread his arm deprecatingly. “It’s the way things are, Professor, the way they’ve been ever since the Jews came into our midst and set up their accursed state.”

  “You think so? I wonder. We have always fought among ourselves, we Arabs. Seemingly, when two Arabs get together it’s to plot against a third. Then came Israel, and for the first time we were united because there was now someone we could hate more than we hated each other. All the brothers against our cousins—that’s what the Israelis call us, you know, the cousins. But the plain truth is that Israel more or less made for peace among us for thirty years or more. Unfortunately, in recent years the effect has diminished, I suppose, because we have pretty much come to accept them, the fact of them, and we no longer think we can drive them into the sea. So we have Iraq fighting Iran, and Syria against Jordan, the Muslims against the Christians in Lebanon, and the Syrian PLO against Arafat’s PLO, and Libya against Egypt and Chad and everybody else. If the Jews hadn’t come, we would have had to invent them just to keep us from killing each other off.”

  Abdul looked at him doubtfully and then smiled. “You know, I can’t tell if you’re fooling or serious.”

  “Oh, I’m serious, all right. Look, Abdul, we are Druse, Ibrahim and I.”

  “So am I, from Lebanon.”

  “Very well. Now, we Druse have followed the principle of being loyal to the country where we happen to reside. So your people were loyal to Lebanon when there was a Lebanon, because that’s where your people live, and I am now loyal to the United States, because I am an American. But my people come from the Galilee, from Israel, and are loyal to Israel. If I had not come here as a child, I might have fought in the Israeli army along with other members of our clan. However, with respect to the rest of the Arab world, my loyalties are primarily with the Druse in whatever country they happen to live. Right now, the Israelis are the least we have to worry about. They’re out of Lebanon and are not likely to come back. We could be friends with them.”

  Abdul looked at him doubtfully. “That’s a funny way to talk.”

  “Why?” He smiled, showing even, white teeth between his moustache and imperial.

  “Does Ibrahim know you feel this way?”

  “Ibrahim and I are like brothers. We disagree from time to time, but we have no secrets from each other. And he agrees with me that it would have been a good thing if the Israelis had allied themselves with the Druse instead of with the Christians when they invaded Lebanon. That was a mistake on their part, and they know it now. They had been so successful with Haddad’s Christian army, they thought they could do the same with Jemael. But Haddad’s men were farmers, whereas Jemael’s are merchants, who would sell their grandmothers if they saw a profit. It did not work out well for them.” He shook his head sadly. “And it was bad for the Druse. We are unarmed and subject to pressure from all sides, from the Syrians and from the Christians, and from the Sunnis and the Shiites. And anyone who supplies us with arms expects us to use them as they direct, against their enemies.”

  “That’s just the point,” Abdul agreed. “We need arms to protect ourselves, and we have a chance of getting them with no strings attached.” He dropped his voice to little more than a whisper. “The PLO cached an enormous supply of weapons in the Bekaa Valley, enough to equip an army. They had a squad unloading tons of rifles, mortars, even small artillery, and ammunition in a cave. Then they booby-trapped the whole area.”

  “And then?”

  “And then they assassinated the entire squad.”

  El Dhamouri nodded. “Not surprising, considering the makeup of the PLO. It’s what pirates are supposed to have done when they buried treasure.”

  “But one man got away. He says he expected it and took precautions. He managed not only to get away but also to get out of the country. He made a rough map of the location of the cache and of the location of the mines that were set. It’s more a set of directions than a regular map. He fi
nally landed in San Francisco and came to see Ibrahim.”

  “He gave him the map, the directions? Ibrahim has them?”

  “He sold them to Ibrahim. He will be paid when we get the cache.”

  “And what if he approaches someone else with the offer?”

  Ibn Hosni smiled. “No, he can’t do that. Until it is found, he will remain a—er—guest of Ibrahim’s. He says his motive is revenge, and we are inclined to believe him. But also he needs the money for a stake.”

  “I see. But he might have approached someone else before he came to Ibrahim.”

  “He says not, but it’s possible that he’s lying.”

  “In which case, you may have been followed.”

  “I don’t think so. I—I’m experienced at this sort of thing.”

  “This map, the directions, you have it with you?”

  “I left them in the deposit vault at the hotel.”

  “I guess that’s pretty safe. You’ll be there until they’re dispatched?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why couldn’t you take them to Mahmoud in Jerusalem yourself? Couldn’t you get a visa?”

  “I probably could. But I am known, as are the other professionals. I’d be searched when I landed in Tel Aviv, and I’d be watched by their Shin Bet every minute of the time I was in Israel.”

  “What if you were just to mail it to Mahmoud?”

  “He is known. He’s sure his mail is opened. That’s why Ibrahim thought of you. Here you are a professor at Harvard. There are archaeologists and anthropologists coming and going to half a dozen places in the Near East all the time. He thought you might be able to persuade one of them to deliver a letter to your cousin in Jerusalem without too much trouble. You could tell him it’s about some family matter.”

  “Then why wouldn’t I just write to him?”

  “Oh, you know, everyone makes fun of the mail. You could tell him it’s important, and you don’t trust the mails.”

  El Dhamouri canted his head to one side and took thought. “Yes, I could make that convincing, I think. Professor Wilson is going shortly to Jordan but will also visit Israel. But would I be putting him in any danger?”

  “Why would anyone think of interfering with a Professor Wilson of Harvard?”

  “I don’t suppose anyone would. Still … Look, I’ll speak to him. I’ll be seeing him tonight at the Faculty Club. Suppose you drop by tomorrow at about this time, and I’ll let you know the results. If he can’t manage, there’s another possibility. See me tomorrow.”

  The next day, when Ibn Hosni appeared, he was dressed in faded blue jeans, a tennis shirt, and well-scuffed sneakers. Professor El Dhamouri nodded approvingly as he ushered him into the inner office. Once again he latched the outer door. When he resumed his seat behind his desk, he said, “I’m afraid Professor Wilson is out. Funding problems. Maybe in the fall.”

  “We can’t wait that long.”

  “Well, there’s another possibility. Professor Grenish of Northhaven College—that’s a small college about thirty miles north of Boston—he’s making a tour of the Mideast. Greece, the islands, then Israel and on to Egypt. But planning to be in Jerusalem for a while.”

  “But he’s going to Greece first?”

  “So I understand.”

  Ibn Hosni shook his head vigorously. “Mahmoud would never approve of having someone gallivanting around for a couple of weeks with the map in his coat pocket or in one of his bags in a hotel room. He could get robbed—”

  “Oh, my idea was not to give it to him to take along with him. We’d send it to his hotel in Jerusalem. See, it would be waiting for him when he checks in. Or it would arrive in a day or two. It would be addressed to him and would be from me, or better still, from one of his students, preferably a Jewish student. When he gets the letter, he goes to the Old City, wanders around like any tourist until he arrives at the Mideast Trading Corporation. He looks at the curios in the window, and Mahmoud invites him to come inside, where there are more interesting wares, and when they are alone together, he hands him the letter.”

  “We-el, I don’t know.”

  “It’s safer than having the man carry it on his person. And in one respect, he’s better than Wilson. Wilson knows some Arabic. He might be tempted to open my letter out of idle curiosity. Grenish doesn’t know any Arabic.”

  “Grenish, Grenish, what’s his first name?”

  “Abraham.”

  “Abraham Grenish, sounds—”

  “Jewish? He is. Which means he offers an excellent cover.”

  “But—but how … Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Sort of.” He smiled genially. “Some of my best friends are Jews.” He chuckled as he saw consternation in the other’s face. “That’s an inside joke among Jews. But don’t worry about Abe Grenish. I met him at a meeting of the Arab Friendship League.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “Showing his sympathy and support for the Arab cause. He’s liberal. You know how it is with those liberals, originally they were devoted to the cause of Communist Russia. And when it became manifest to the most willing true believer that Russia was not a worker’s paradise, they transferred their allegiance and hopes to Communist China. And when Chairman Mao turned out to have feet of clay, then to Castro, and then to Ho Chi Minh, and so on. It’s a constant search for an underdog to support and glorify. Grenish’s support of the Arab cause against Israel manifests even greater idealism, since he is himself a Jew, although I suppose he was doing the same sort of thing when he glorified Stalin. It’s not an uncommon phenomenon.”

  “And he’s a good friend of yours?”

  “Well, I’ve maintained contact with him.”

  “But why?”

  “Oh, it might come in handy one day to have a Jewish friend. Like right now.”

  “What do you propose to do?”

  “I think I’ll call him and invite him to dinner at the Faculty Club. He enjoys dining with me at the Harvard Faculty Club. And after dinner, over a brandy, perhaps, I’ll sound him out about delivering a letter for me to my cousin in Jerusalem about a family matter.”

  4

  While the sign above the windows said Barnard’s Crossing Supermarket, it was usually referred to as Goodman’s. And though it was set up like a supermarket with price-marked merchandise on shelves for self-service and with shopping carts and a checkout counter, it was a small store, and its customers used it largely for last-minute purchases, things they had forgotten in their regular shopping at the large chain supermarket. It was a friendly store where the customers might stand around and gossip as they waited their turn at the delicatessen counter, and where they expected a lot of personal service, as in “Hey, Louis, you got any more of those canned peaches I like? I don’t see them on the shelf.” Or, “Could you have someone put that stuff in my car, Louis? I got to run next door for a minute.”

  And though Louis Goodman as proprietor was supposed to be engaged in purely managerial functions, nevertheless he would frequently take the bag of groceries out to the car rather than call a stockboy, whom he would have to tell in just which car the groceries were to be put. He was a tall man, loosely put together, with a flexible face permanently set in a smile. As he often said, “In this business a sour puss is worse than having your prices out of line.” And his wife, Rose, plump and round-cheeked, who sat at the checkout counter, might get off her stool and dodge around the counter, and picking up a can from the shelf, call, “They’re right here, Mrs. Sachs. You want one can or two?”

  From the casual gossip at the store, they heard of the Smalls’ intended trip to Israel. And at dinner, and afterward until they went to bed, they discussed it.

  “How can I go to see him? I’m not even a member of his temple.”

  “So what? So does that mean you can’t ask him for a favor?”

  “But how do I know he’s even going to Jerusalem? Maybe he’s going to Haifa or to Tel Aviv. Seems to me, I heard someone say he�
��s got an aunt in Tel Aviv. So maybe they’re going there.”

  “Could be, Louis, but a rabbi, he’d have to go to Jerusalem, if only for a visit.”

  “So if he’s going for a day, for instance, he’ll have time to go to see our Jordon?”

  “Look, you could ask. If he’s going to be busy, so he’ll tell you, or he’ll tell you he’ll try but he can’t promise. The most he can do is refuse.”

  “The Levinsons are going to Israel. I could ask them.”

  “The Levinsons? What would they know about the kind of situation our Jordon is in?”

  “Well, they could look him up and talk to him. They could look around and see what kind of place it is. After all, he’s in the real-estate business; he can size up a neighborhood.”

  “Is that what we’re interested in, Louis, if Jordan is living in a good neighborhood? Tell me, why are you so hostile to Rabbi Small? The other day when he came in for a carton of milk, you didn’t even look at him while you were checking him out at the register.”

  “So I’m hostile to him. I’m hostile to him because my customers are hostile to him, that’s why.”

  “Ah, the fancy-shmancy ladies.”

  “We make a living from these fancy-shmancy ladies, Rose, and don’t you forget it. Besides, I got my own reasons. When I made up the sandwiches for Mrs. Seltzer’s meeting a couple of weeks back, the rabbi wouldn’t eat it on account he said it wasn’t kosher.”

  “What do you expect? It isn’t kosher. We call it kosher-type—”

  “Sure, but he didn’t have to say so. Couldn’t he just say he wasn’t hungry or he was on some special diet? No, he had to come right out and say kosher-type isn’t kosher. Everybody knew it was from our store.”

  “So because the rabbi tells the truth, which it is the same truth you tell if somebody asks, you won’t ask him about the welfare of your own son, about his future, where he’s, you might call it, a specialist on the subject?”

  “All right, all right already. If he should come in the store—”