“Uri?”
“Uri Adoumi.”
“Oh, of course. How are you—er—Uri?” It was the first time Adoumi had referred to himself by his first name in any of their conversations, and the rabbi thought it was an effort to show his friendship.
“My Sarah tells me that Gittel told her you people are leaving next week.”
“That’s right. Monday.”
“I thought you’d be staying longer.”
“Well, I have to get back to work, you know. I have a wedding scheduled for Saturday.”
“So how are you getting down to Lod? Have you made arrangements yet?”
“Not yet. I figured on going by sherut. I was planning to drop in to their office in the next day or two.”
“Don’t. I’ll take you.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you, but we leave very early in the morning, around six.”
“So? I’ll pick you up at six.”
The rabbi sensed that the offer was by way of apology, and so he did not offer the usual polite demurrals but said, “Very good. We’ll expect you around six.”
There was no problem with the baggage, since Adoumi appeared with a large beach wagon. He had the rabbi sit beside him on the front seat, while Miriam sat in back. No sooner had they left the city and were on the road to Tel Aviv than Adoumi said, “I suppose you’ve been wondering why I hadn’t gotten in touch with you earlier, as I promised. Well, it was because the affair was finally settled only in the last week or so.”
“I saw nothing about it in the newspapers.”
“Of course not. You didn’t see anything about Skinner’s arrest, or even of that yeshiva boy’s arrest when he was taken in. It was all a matter of security, you understand. But it’s been in the papers the past few days—”
“Really? I must have missed it.”
Adoumi chuckled. “You couldn’t have. It was the feature story. In yesterday’s paper the headline was ‘DRUSE THRUST TOWARD BEIRUT.’ Do you realize you changed government policy?”
“I did?”
“Uh-huh. The letter that was sent to Grenish and that Skinner got hold of was a map and a set of directions leading to a huge arms cache that the PLO had buried in a cave in the Bekaa Valley. As it turned out, there was enough there to equip a small army—small arms, machine guns, mortars. When we translated it—it was in Arabic—and saw what we had, we handed it over to the chief of staff. It was debated at the highest level. You see, it was right in the middle of Druse country, and it was the opinion of the army that it would cost us from thirty to fifty casualties to get it out, and it wasn’t worth it. On the other hand, if we just left it there, sooner or later someone would get it, probably the Syrians. You see, it was the plan of Skinner and his Arab buddy Ismael to sell it to the highest bidder. Well, if nothing happened, there would be another letter sent out. See? Or someone might come across it by accident, like the boy who found the Dead Sea Scrolls. So it was finally decided to send it on to the Druse. We should have teamed up with them rather than with Jemael’s Christians from the very beginning. The Druse were grateful. It enabled them to protect themselves against the Syrians and the Shiites and the Christians. They couldn’t admit to having been helped by us, of course, because that would unite all Arab forces against them, but they’re aware of what we did for them.”
“And that’s what’s behind their thrust toward Beirut?”
“Uh-huh. Figure it out yourself. These are the first weapons they could get with no strings attached.”
“I see.”
“Er—look, this is still secret, Rabbi, so don’t go telling all your American friends what a big shot you are.”
“David never would,” said Miriam indignantly.
“And what happened to Skinner and Ismael?” asked the rabbi.
Adoumi shrugged. “Who knows? Ismael says it was Skinner’s plan, and Skinner says it was Ismael if anyone was the cause of Grenish’s death. Maybe there was some kind of deal made with Skinner. It wouldn’t surprise me if part of the deal didn’t involve the sale of his house to the yeshiva. After all, the minister of the interior belongs to one of the extreme religious parties. One thing I’m sure of: On your next trip to Jerusalem, you probably won’t be offered coffee by Skinner.”
Adoumi pulled up in front of the entrance to the airport lounge, and while the two men wrestled with the baggage, Miriam went to get a luggage carrier from the row beside the door. They loaded the bags onto the carrier, and as the rabbi turned the carriage toward the door, Adoumi said, “Oh, by the way, Rabbi, would you mail this letter for me when you get to the airport in Boston?” He reached into his inside jacket pocket and held out an envelope. “It’s got an American stamp, you see. All you have to do is drop it in a box at the airport.”
The rabbi glanced at the address. “Professor El Dhamouri? Oh, he’s the one you said you had on a list—”
“That’s right. It’s just a clipping from the Jerusalem Post. I thought it might interest him—and maybe puzzle him a little, too.”
Although the rabbi had decided to sleep late the day after his return, and recite his morning prayers at home, he found that he was wide awake at five o’clock in the morning and could not get back to sleep. So while Miriam gently snored, he got dressed quietly and went downstairs. A little later, because there was no reason not to, he strolled leisurely in the cool morning of the late summer day to the temple to participate in the minyan. He was the first to arrive, but shortly after, he was joined by Al Bergson.
After the initial greetings, Bergson said, “You know, David, when I rejoined the group in Eilat, I told them what had happened. And do you know? When I told them that young Goodman was going to be released in a day or two, the first one to speak up was Barney Berkowitz. He offered to pay the young man’s plane fare back to the States if he wanted to come.”
“That was very decent of him.”
“Wasn’t it?” He hesitated for a moment and then said, “I wish you’d tell him that, David. I know he’d appreciate it.”
The rabbi studied his face for a moment. “All right. I will, next time I see him.”
“You’ll have a chance this morning. He’ll be coming to the minyan, I’m sure. He hasn’t missed a session since his Bar Mitzvah. You understand, he didn’t actually pay for Goodman’s passage. I was able to arrange with El Al for him to go as a ‘dead head,’ but the thought was there, and if I hadn’t been able to arrange it, he would have.”
“All right; as you say, it’s the intention that counts. And does young Goodman come to the minyan, too? And does he still call himself Ish-Tov?”
“You know, I haven’t seen him around. He’s probably out of town visiting old friends, but I haven’t seen him, and he sure as hell hasn’t been to see me.” A thought occurred to him. “Why did you think he might not come to the minyan? Did you see him? Is he kind of soured?”
“I didn’t see him. I went to see Rabbi Karpis, the director of the yeshiva, though. I gathered from him that Ish-Tov felt the yeshiva had not been too diligent in effecting his release.”
“And you think that might have soured him? Ah, here’s Barney now. Hello, Barney.”
“Hi, Al. Oh, and Rabbi Small. Welcome back. When did you—”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Did you see the Goodman boy after—after—”
“After he was released? No. I went to the yeshiva, but he’d gone. I understand you offered to pay his fare back. That was very nice of you, Mr. Berkowitz.”
“Call me B.B. I tell you, my wife shops there practically every day. So how would it be if Rose were pining away for her son? It could sour the cream cheese.” He cackled at his own joke.
The rabbi grinned. “That’s a consideration.” He looked around and made a quick count. “I see we have ten. Would you like to lead, er—B.B.?”
“Nah, you do it. You’re the stranger today.” And he laughed again.
“All right.” The rabbi took his place at the reading
desk, facing the Ark. He turned his head momentarily to where Bergson was sitting. Bergson gave him an elaborate wink, then opened his prayer book.
After the service, the rabbi stood around with some of the others, receiving their expressions of welcome, gossiping, shmoozing. Then he started back home. As he approached the Goodman market, he saw that it was on the point of opening for the day. Louis Goodman was engaged in pushing a line of shopping carts out in front of the store, where customers could take one before entering. Goodman jiggled the file of nested carts to get them flush against his store window. Then he wiped his forehead and said, “It looks as though it’s going to be a hot day. Oh, hello, Rabbi. Just get back?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Well, you picked a nice day for it. Yesterday was the first good day we’ve had in over a week. It was raining all last week.” He paused, embarrassed. “Look, I heard you helped our Jordan when he got into a spot of trouble over there. I want you to know Rose and I are grateful.”
“How is he?” asked the rabbi.
“Oh, he’s all right. He called us and said he’d be along in a few days.”
“You mean he’s just coming home? I thought he left some time ago.”
“Yeah, well, he came back to the States, but he stopped off in New York. It was from New York he called me.”
“There’s nothing wrong, I hope.”
“Oh, no. He gets off in New York, see. And he’s in the lounge at Kennedy waiting for a plane to Logan. And three or four of those guys, you know, Hasidim from Williamsburg, come over and start talking to him.” A note of exasperation became noticeable in his tone. “And they persuade him into coming with them to this place in Williamsburg. And he’s been there ever since.”
“But he’ll be home in a few days?”
“It’s what he said.”
“Well, perhaps he’ll come to see me when he gets here.”
“I’ll tell him, Rabbi. Believe me, I’ll tell him.”
The secretary slit the dozen or so envelopes that had come in the morning’s mail, then brought them in to Professor El Dhamouri. He had been away in Spain for almost a month and had returned only at the beginning of the week and still was wrestling with the mail that had accumulated during his absence. She stood in front of his desk, awaiting his instructions on the letters she had just brought in, for there was much of his correspondence that she handled on her own. She saw his face drop.
“This is terrible!”
“Bad news?” she asked.
He held up the clipping from the Jerusalem Post. “Professor Grenish died. In Jerusalem. You remember Professor Grenish? Of Northhaven? He evidently had a heart attack while he was in the city.” He opened the envelope wide. “There doesn’t seem to be a note. Just this clipping. It didn’t fall out on your desk, did it?”
“I’m sure it didn’t, but I’ll look.” She went out, looked on the desk and on the floor underneath. She came back. “No, that’s all that was in there.”
“I examined the envelope. No return address. I wonder who could have sent it. It was mailed here, but someone there could have given it to someone coming to the States to mail. I wonder …”
He seemed abstracted. Quietly, the secretary left the room.
The Lanigans had come over for coffee. They talked of things that had happened during the summer, and Miriam told Amy about keeping house in Israel, and Amy in turn told of the difficulties of shopping while the town was so full of tourists.
Then Lanigan said, “Hey, David, you remember we talked about the Goodman boy before you left? You said you were going to see him.”
“Yes, I saw him.”
“Well, a funny thing happened about that business I told you about, you know, the broken window and the complaint against him. There was an inquiry about that. From the FBI, no less. A feller from the Boston office came down to see me and wanted to know all about it. What do you think of that?”
Before he could answer, Amy exclaimed, “Oh, look, Hugh. Look what Miriam brought me. It’s a Jerusalem cross.”
Lanigan reached for his wallet. “What do I owe you, David?”
The rabbi shook his head. “Nothing. It’s a gift.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Oh, thank you, Miriam, David. It’s just what I wanted.”
“You didn’t have any trouble buying it?” asked Lanigan. “I mean, it wasn’t any bother for you, was it, David?”
The rabbi shook his head. “No bother at all.”
About the Author
Harry Kemelman (1908–1996) was best known for his popular rabbinical mystery series featuring the amateur sleuth Rabbi David Small. Kemelman wrote twelve novels in the series, the first of which, Friday the Rabbi Slept Late, won the Edgar Award for Best First Novel. This book was also adapted as an NBC made-for-TV movie, and the Rabbi Small Mysteries were the inspiration for the NBC television show Lanigan’s Rabbi. Kemelman’s novels garnered praise for their unique combination of mystery and Judaism, and with Rabbi Small, the author created a protagonist who played a part-time detective with wit and charm. Kemelman also wrote a series of short stories about Nicky Welt, a college professor who used logic to solve crimes, which were published in a collection entitled The Nine Mile Walk.
Aside from being an award-winning novelist, Kemelman, originally from Boston, was also an English professor.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1987 by Harry Kemelman
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1612-4
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross Page 21