One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross

by Harry Kemelman

  He saw a policeman and went over to him. He pointed. “That store near the corner, can you tell me why it is closed?”

  The policeman nodded and smiled.

  The policeman obviously was Arab, and like the other, probably spoke French. He tried to recall his college French. What was the word for store? Finally he pointed and said, “Fermé Pourquois?”

  The policeman nodded and burst into rapid-fire, explosive French. Grenish did not understand a word, but the man was so eager and willing that he felt it would be ungracious to indicate that he had not understood. So he smiled and turned away.

  “Can I help you?” It was Skinner. You seem to be having some trouble.”

  “No trouble. I just wondered why that store was closed. I asked the policeman, but I’m afraid my French wasn’t up to understanding what he said.”

  “Oh, well, that’s easy. This store is closed because the proprietor is Muslim and it’s Friday. Bylaw, all stores have to be closed one day a week. Jewish stores are closed on Saturday, Christian stores on Sunday, and Muslim stores on Friday.”

  “And all these other stores—”

  “Are Christian. In this section most of the proprietors are Christian.”

  They had been strolling along as Skinner explained. Grenish said, “You seem to be quite knowledgeable.”

  “Yes, I know the Old City well.”

  “Then perhaps you can direct me to a decent restaurant.”

  “Oh, there are lots of them. There’s one down this street that I occasionally eat in.”

  19

  At a quarter to seven on Sunday morning, Aharon Perlmutter, having received the guest list from the front desk, took up his station at a small table in front of the entrance to the dining room.

  A waiter came over. “A cup of coffee, Mr. Aharon?”

  “That would be very nice.”

  “And some toast?”

  “If you please.”

  As he ate his toast and drank his coffee, he ran a practiced eye over the guest list. He noted that there was a French group that had been put on the third and fourth floors, and an American group on the fifth floor. Tour groups were always put in consecutive rooms so that the constant traffic between rooms (with the resultant banging of doors) and their frequent loud hilarity in the corridors did not disturb other guests.

  The other guests, those not attached to tours, were assigned rooms on the sixth and seventh floors, which offered better views of the city. There were many nationalities represented: German, French, English, Spanish, and a Japanese couple. These names he studied, pronouncing them to himself so that he would recognize them when they were said to him. He noticed the name Grenish in Room seven-thirteen, and as he said it to himself, he wondered if it might not be an Americanization of his wife’s family name, Grenitz. Of course, even it were, it did not necessarily mean a connection with his in-laws. The word meant “border,” and when Jews were required to assume surnames, no doubt many who lived along a border—perhaps between Russia and Poland—had taken or been assigned that name. Still, his father-in-law had once mentioned a relative—a cousin or an uncle—who had immigrated to America. He wondered how he would broach the matter. If he were to ask outright, “Was your name formerly Grenitz?” the man might take offense and regard it as an impertinence. He worried about it and finally decided that when the man pronounced his name, he would reiterate it and then as he pretended to search through the list, he would add that he knew someone by that name, “Granish or maybe Grenitz.” If the man had indeed changed his name from Grenitz, he might say so. Then he, Aharon, could identify himself, and perhaps the other might have some information about his in-laws in Poland. Maybe one or two had managed to escape and had made contact with him at the same time. He looked forward eagerly to the arrival of Grenish for breakfast.

  The early arrivals were all tour people. There was no mistaking them. They had cameras and field glasses and maps and travel books. They wore badges for easy identification by the tour guide. Many of them wore timbals, the little white duck hats that tour managements often distributed as protection against the sun. They always breakfasted early, for they were scheduled to board the large buses for a day’s touring of Jerusalem and its environs.

  By eight o’clock the tour people were all gone, and guests from the upper floors began to make their appearances. But it was not until a quarter to nine that Grenish appeared. He had no sooner given his name and room number when the hotel manager came hurrying over and said, “Oh, Aharon, you speak Polish, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then would you please go to the front desk. There’s someone there who seems to be able to speak only Polish, or maybe it’s Russian—”

  “I know both.”

  “Fine. Go and interpret for the desk clerk, will you? I’ll cover for you here.”

  With a lingering look at Grenish, who was helping himself at the buffet table, Aharon left the dining room. He was kept at the front desk until well after nine. When he was at last free, he returned to the dining room in the hope that Grenish might still be there, but the room was clear of guests and the waiters were busy changing the tablecloths.

  He went back to the front desk and asked one of the clerks, “Grenish, seven-thirteen. How long is he staying?”

  The clerk checked his list. “He’s here for the week, Aharon.” It occurred to Aharon that he certainly ought to be able to make contact in the next few days.

  At the minyan there was always a hiatus of a few minutes between the conclusion of mincha, the afternoon service, and the beginning of maariv, the evening service. While occasionally someone used the opportunity to expound some interesting argument he had come across, more often it was merely a recess during which the men sat about and just talked. Perlmutter had arrived just as the service was about to begin, but now that the mincha service was over, Rabbi Small went over to him and asked how he liked his new job.

  “Oh, it’s not really new. I’ve done it before. It’s a bit of a rush for me. Of course, I get through earlier, but—”

  “But you’d rather sleep a little later in the morning,” said the rabbi.

  “Very true.” He grinned ruefully. “But at my age, I can’t be too particular. Strictly speaking, the whole business is pretty silly. We have very few guests who are not entitled to the breakfast, and the few who aren’t, don’t usually come down to the dining room for breakfast. The last time I had this duty, some months ago, there was only one in the two weeks that I was on the job that we had to charge for a breakfast. My salary for those two and a half hours is a lot more than the occasional breakfast that we might fail to charge for, but we are part of a chain, and the rules are issued by the head office.”

  “And it’s only for a couple of weeks?”

  “Maybe only a week this time.” He brightened. “And you meet so many people, if only for a moment. A whole world. This morning, for instance, in going over my list, I see the name Grenish.”

  “And this Grenish, you knew him?”

  “No, but my wife’s family name, I think I told you, was Grenitz. So it occurred to me that maybe that had been his name, and he had changed it, you know, Americanized it. So I’d ask him. No harm in asking, is there?”

  “And?”

  “Ah. He came. He gave me his name. But just then the manager asked me to go to the front desk. When I got back, Grenish was gone. So I’ll ask him tomorrow. At the desk, they told me he was staying for a week. So I’m hoping.”

  20

  Ish-Tov’s closest friend at the yeshiva was Yitzchak (formerly Irving) Cohen of Amarillo, Texas. Cohen was a year or two older, had been at the yeshiva more than a year before Ish-Tov’s arrival. Thin, intense, nervy, Cohen was meticulous in his observance of the commandments to the point that Ish-Tov considered superstitious. He once remarked on it jokingly, and Cohen had replied, “When you’ve led the kind of life I have, and a couple of times come to the verge—well, never mind, and then you find somet
hing that seems to work, you don’t go fooling around and experimenting with the formula. Understand?”

  Ish-Tov nodded, but he did not really understand, since he knew little or nothing of Cohen’s earlier life. Cohen was curious and prying. He had ferreted out all kinds of secrets from his fellow students and his teachers, and these he did not mind passing on, but about his own affairs he was careful to tell nothing.

  He not only knew a great deal about the members of the yeshiva, faculty and students, he also had an intimate knowledge of the building itself. He knew where everything was kept, how you could get in and out of the building without going through the front door, just where to stand in their dormitory so you could hear what was being said in Kahn’s office a floor below. It was from him that Ish-Tov learned of the sanctuary on the roof.

  Sunday afternoon, when they found themselves momentarily alone in the dormitory they shared with four others, Cohen took out a half-empty box of cigarettes and shook loose a couple of misshapen and obviously hand-rolled cigarettes. Ish-Tov’s eyes opened wide.

  “Pot? Where’d you get them?” he asked.

  “In the Old City. When we finished dickering with that Arab over the bag, you walked on ahead. Remember? I hung back and bought a few.”

  “From the same guy? How did you know he—”

  “I knew. That’s why I took you there to dicker about the bag. How about it?”

  “Okay. You go first and I’ll be along in a couple of minutes.”

  Yitzchak nodded agreement and sauntered out of the room. After a quick look around, he walked to the end of the corridor to a door, which he eased open, then up a flight of dusty steps and pushed open another door, which opened onto the roof.

  He sat down on the cement roof and rested his back against the shed, which also provided shade against the hot sun. After a couple of minutes he was joined by Ish-Tov, who sat down beside him.

  “What kept you?” he asked.

  Ish-Tov drew out of his pocket a pair of small, prismatic binoculars. “I wanted to dig these out.”

  “What for? To look for birds?”

  Ish-Tov grinned lewdly. “Yeah, that’s right, for birds. Once I looked right into a bedroom and saw a bird undressing.”

  “Hey, boy, you know what that kind of talk around here gets you? A shadchen. He comes around, and in a week you’re married. And then it’s a kid every year for the next ten or twelve years. You’re twenty-five? Twenty-six? They’ll be arranging a marriage for you pretty soon, anyway. No need to hurry it, though.”

  “How come they haven’t got you?”

  Yitzchak smiled in great satisfaction. “They can’t. I’m married.”

  “Yeah? Hey, where—”

  “Back in the States. Gentile girl. We’re getting a divorce.” He laughed coarsely. “That is, if and when the guy she’s living with now decides to marry her.”

  “Then you’d let the matchmaker arrange a marriage for you?”

  “Sure. Why not? He couldn’t do any worse than I did for myself. In college, the dean picks a roommate for you, and usually it works out all right. Same kind of thing when the shadchen picks a wife for you. It’s like a business contract, and usually both parties are satisfied. When you marry for love, though, it’s a different kind of thing altogether. You think she’s the only one in the world and she thinks the same about you. Then after a while the spark isn’t there and you begin to wonder if maybe it’s because she’s focusing in another direction, on someone else. Look at Kahn.”

  “You mean our Kahn, the secretary? What about him?”

  “Married five years or more and no kids. The older men tell him he should get a divorce, but he won’t think of it. He’s in love with her. You know where he is right now?”

  “He wasn’t at the desk in the front office. Yossi was there. I figured he was sick, or maybe making the arrangements for the trip to Safed tomorrow.”

  “He’s not sick, and he may not even go on the Safed teeyul. He’s home watching his wife, that’s where he is and that’s what he’s doing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I heard Rabbi Brodny talking with Rabbi Ellsberg. They were joking about it. Their wives—at least Brodny’s—socialize with Mrs. Kahn. She got a letter from some guy in America, an old boyfriend, saying he was coming to Jerusalem and would call Sunday—today. Being an American, I suppose he figured it was part of the weekend. So Kahn takes the day off to be home and make sure there’s no hanky-panky. That’s what marrying for love does for you.”

  “How come you hear so much, Yitzchak?”

  “Because I like to know what’s going on. The teachers here, when they don’t want us to know what they’re saying, talk in Hebrew. They figure none of us know much of the language beyond what we’ve learned here. But I went to a Hebrew day school when I was a kid. And when I came here I went to an ulpan for six months where you lived in and were not allowed to talk anything but Hebrew, and when we weren’t talking we were listening to radio and television. So I’m pretty fluent.”

  “You’re pretty sharp, Yitzchak. Don’t you ever worry about cutting yourself?” Ish-Tov took a last drag on his roach and then tossed it on the concrete and rose to his feet.

  “Hey, shred it,” said Yitzchak. “If someone comes up here, I don’t want him to know we’ve been using the place to smoke pot.”

  Obediently, Ish-Tov stepped on the stub and ground it to dust. Then he strolled over to the parapet that encircled the roof. “Boy, what a view,” he exclaimed.

  “You’d better stand back,” said Yitzchak. “Someone might see you.”

  “So what?”

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to be up here. Besides, if it got known, you’d have guys up here all the time, and then where would we go to puff a joint?”

  “Right.” Ish-Tov stepped back a pace or two but continued circling the shed now and then, raising the binoculars that dangled from his neck.

  “See any birds?” asked Yitzchak.

  “Just the kind that live in trees.” He continued to circle, and when he faced the Skinner house, he called out, “Hey, Yitzchak, come and take a look at this.”

  Yitzchak joined him and looked in the direction in which he was pointing. “That hole in the ground?”

  “Yeah. Looks like a grave.”

  “That’s no grave. I’ll bet that’s what Kahn was all worked up about last night. He was hotfooting it down the corridor like his pants were on fire. So naturally when he went in and closed the door, I stopped to listen—”

  “Naturally.”

  “Look, buster, in any institution or organization, you last longer if you cover your ass. Which means it’s a good idea to know what’s going on. I figure that when Kahn goes hurrying to see the director and barges in without even knocking, it must be something important.”

  “So you stayed outside and listened? Did you bend down to look through the keyhole?”

  “And maybe be seen by somebody? Nah.” He grinned. “I went to the door just beyond the director’s and slid in there. That’s kind of a storage closet with pails and mops and a little sink, and it’s separated from the director’s office by just a thin plywood partition. I could hear as plain—as plain as I hear you now.”

  “So what did you hear?”

  “Listen. Kahn had got a call from a former student who works in the Ministry of Education and Culture. The guy next door, Skinner, had phoned the Department of Antiquities—they’re part of the Ministry, you know—that he’d discovered an archaeological artifact, and they said they’d come down and look at it in a couple of days.”

  “So what’s the excitement? They discovered an artifact—”

  “Don’t you understand? They could start a dig and it could spread to here, the yeshiva land. There’s a theory that there must be a tunnel under the wall of the Old City—”

  “That’s silly.”

  “Why is it silly? If you’re in a walled city, surrounded by the enemy, and you want to send a
messenger to your allies who are holed up in Ramallah, say, how would you do it? Or if you wanted to make a sortie and attack the besieging force from the rear, wouldn’t you need a tunnel? But that’s not all. Kahn was telling the director that the same thing happened here a few years back. They found an artifact and someone reported it to the Department of Antiquities, and Rabbi Moshe Stern, who was director before Karpis, and who was an activist, ordered the hole to be filled up.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The investigator for the department came and reported back that there was nothing of consequence here. See, he didn’t want to get into a hassle with the religious establishment. But Karpis wouldn’t do anything like that. He’s the kind who would cooperate with the authorities.”

  “Well, he’s running the show, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe,” said Yitzchak cryptically. “Here, let me see those glasses for a minute.”

  He peered at the trench, and then handing the binoculars back to Ish-Tov, said, “They left a couple of shovels there. Take a look. That shows they are planning on doing some more digging. Tell you what. How about we go down there after dark and fill up that trench.”

  “Why should we do it? What’s in it for us?”

  “Because it would be a good joke on this guy Skinner—”

  “But he could get in trouble.”

  “All the better. And after a while, when things quiet down, we let it be known that we did it and we’ll be bloody heroes here, especially with Kahn, and that could be useful.”