Tuesday the Rabbi Saw Red

by Harry Kemelman

  “At one o’clock? On Friday? I’m surprised you’re getting that many.”

  “But why?” the rabbi insisted. “I can understand that one or two might have a trip planned for the weekend and want to make an early start—”

  “They’ve all got plans for the weekend, Rabbi. If it’s a girl, she’s been invited to another college for the football game on Saturday. If she attends your class, she finishes at two and can’t start much before three, so she’ll get wherever she’s going too late for all the fun on Friday. And young people nowadays can’t afford to miss any fun. It’s a kind of commitment, even a kind of religion, you might say.”

  “You mean that all those absent have weekend dates?”

  “No, not all,” said Hendryx. “Some stay away so that their friends will think they’ve got a date. Some figure they might as well make it a long weekend. Some—al-though personally I doubt it—use the time to study for other courses, supposedly the rationale behind unlimited cuts: they’re supposed to be mature enough to organize their own time.”

  “And what am I supposed to do on Fridays when less than half my class shows up?”

  “Well,” said Hendryx, drawing on his pipe, “that’s a good question. There aren’t too many courses given Friday afternoon. Joe Browder has a geology class at one over in the Blythe Building. Off-hand I don’t know any other. By noon the place is deserted. Even the cafeteria is closed. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “But what am I supposed to do?” the rabbi persisted. “Not give the lecture?”

  “I’ve known instructors to do just that. Not that they openly cancel out, but every other week or so they announce they’ll be unable to meet with the class.” He looked at the rabbi, a faint derisive smile on his face. “But I guess you wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  “No, I don’t feel as though I could,” he said.

  “So what have you been doing?”

  “So far, I’ve treated it as just another hour and given my regular lecture. Last week, as you know, I gave a quiz.”

  “I meant to ask you about that,” said Hendryx. “How many showed up?”

  “Only fifteen.”

  Hendryx chuckled. “Well, well, well. Only fifteen, eh? And for an hour exam? You handed back the books today? Tell me, how did your class react?”

  “That’s what bothers me,” confessed the rabbi. “Many of them seemed resentful and some appeared actually indignant, as though I had been unfair.”

  Hendryx nodded. “You know why they acted indignant, Rabbi? Because they were indignant. And they were indignant because you were unfair, at least according to their lights. You see yours is traditionally a snap course. That’s why so many elected it. So why get yourself in a sweat, Rabbi, trying to change it? Why not do as the rest of us do and go along with things as they are?”

  “Because I’m a rabbi,” he said, and then added with obvious disparagement, “not a teacher.”

  Hendryx laughed uproariously in acknowledgment of the thrust. “But Rabbi, I thought that’s what a rabbi was. Isn’t that what the word means—teacher?”

  “Not that kind. A rabbi is one who is learned in the law by which we are expected to order our lives. His major traditional function is to judge, but he also expounds the law on occasion for the benefit of his congregation and community. The kind of teacher you have in mind, the kind that coaxes the young and immature to learn, a teacher of children—that’s something else. Him, we call a melamed, and the term has a derogatory connotation.”

  “Derogatory?”

  “That’s right. You see, since Jews have had practically one hundred percent literacy for centuries,” the rabbi said, enjoying this, “anyone can teach. Naturally, the social prestige or the financial reward for doing what everyone else can do is not great. So the melamed was usually someone who had failed at everything else and finally had to fall back on teaching children to make a living.”

  “And you feel that by going easy with your class, you will be a melamed?” Hendryx asked, interested in spite of himself. “Is that it?”

  “Oh, I’m not so much concerned about my status as I am about their attitude. We Jews expect to tease and coax children to learn. That’s why when a child starts school we give him cake and honey so he will associate learning with something sweet and desirable. But I don’t feel I should have to continue the treatment with adults. Of course, not all adults want to become scholars, but those who do and come to college should have an adult attitude toward instruction. I shouldn’t have to tease and coax them to learn.”

  “You don’t,” said Hendryx. “And neither do the rest of us. We give our lectures. Those who want to come, come; and those who don’t, stay away.”

  “And those who decide to stay away—do they pass?”

  “Well, of course—”

  “But that’s cheating!” he exclaimed.

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Rabbi.”

  “Let me put it this way,” said David Small, searching for an analogy. “Traditionally, the way you become a rabbi is to present yourself to a rabbi for examination. If you pass his examination, he gives you what we call smicha, a seal of approval, ordination. Of course some rabbis were harder, more exacting, in their examination than others because they were themselves more subtle in their thinking and even more knowledgeable. But I expect they were all honest in their decisions, because in designating the candidate a rabbi they were certifying him capable of sitting in judgment throughout the Jewish world.

  “Now the degree granted here also has value and meaning throughout the world and the authority to grant it was conferred by the state, as I understand it. The college system calls for the candidate to accumulate credits toward the degree by sitting under a number of instructors and then satisfying them that he has properly completed their courses of instruction. I am being paid to pass on some small part of the total. So if I don’t do my work thoroughly, I’m acting dishonestly. I’m cheating.”

  “Cheating whom?”

  “Cheating everyone who assumes the degree indicates a body of knowledge has been successfully assimilated.”

  “You mean you are planning to flunk students who cut their Friday classes?”

  “Those who don’t take the exams, or fail in them.”

  “Very interesting. Ve—ry interesting,” said Hendryx. “In a little while we’re supposed to submit to the dean’s office the names of all students who are failing at mid-semester. Do you intend to submit such a list?”

  “If that’s the system, of course I shall comply. Don’t you?”

  “Well, the last few years, I haven’t bothered with it much. As a matter of fact, last year I didn’t flunk anyone in any of my classes. But I expect you’re planning to.”

  “If they do not pass the examinations, I will give a failure mark of course.”

  “Well, all I can say, Rabbi, is that you’re going to have a very interesting year.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  The college bulletin appeared at the end of October following the semi-annual meeting of the trustees of Windemere Christian College. It was studied not only for what it included but for what it omitted. Thus, while it announced that Associate Professor Clyde had been appointed to full professor, the fact drew little interest; everyone knew that President Macomber was recommending him for the promotion and the trustees always followed the president’s recommendations.

  On the other hand, considerable attention was paid to the omission of any mention of the appointment of a permanent head of the English department. Clearly, this suggested that Professor Hendryx, the acting head, was only on temporary assignment until the administration could find a more suitable candidate.

  This delighted a considerable number of older members of the department and most of the younger, in sharp contrast to their reaction to another omission in the bulletin—the reappointment of Assistant Professor Roger Fine. Fine was well-liked by most faculty members, but even those who did not hold him in hig
h regard were displeased, since the reason was assumed to be purely political.

  Albert Herzog, a young instructor in anthropology who was also an officer of the teachers’ union, sought out Fine. “Hey Rog, what’s this I hear about you being dropped at mid years?”

  “I’m not being dropped. That’s when my contract runs out.”

  “What’s that got to do with it? The job is there. They’ll have to get someone to replace you. As a matter of fact, I happen to know they’re planning to hire two men on your end of the ranking scale, instructors or assistant professors.”

  “That may be,” said Fine, “but I was hired last February on a one-year contract or two semesters. They let me teach summer session as well, so that’s three semesters. I don’t see that I’ve got any kick coming.”

  “Well, a regular contract is normally renewed from year to year. Macomber doesn’t have anything against you, does he?”

  “Oh no,” said Fine quickly.

  “Then that can mean only one thing—that you’re being fired for your political activity. And if so, the union is not going to stand for it. We’ll demand a hearing.”

  “Come on, Al, climb down,” said Fine. “The union’s contract with the school specifically permits the president to drop a man without a hearing as long as he’s not on tenure.”

  “Only if it’s not for a political reason!” said Herzog, jabbing a bony finger to drive home the point. “He can fire you because he doesn’t like the way you comb your hair, but he can’t fire you for writing that article in The Windrift or for your support of the blacks. That’s political, and that’s specifically ruled out under contract. Same with the AAUP. No, this is a clear case, and we’ll get to work on it.”

  “Please, Al, do me a favor. Mind your own business. I don’t want to get into a fight with the administration.” He put a hand on his shoulder.

  Herzog shrugged him off. “I don’t understand you. If there was one guy on this faculty I could count on to fight for his rights, it was you. That’s been the trouble with teachers all along; they think they’ll get better treatment if they lie down and let administrations walk all over them. But you’ll find that practically every time the union puts up a fight on this kind of matter, it wins. I’m going to call a meeting of the executive—”

  “No.”

  “Look, Fine, it’s not just you. If the administration can fire a fully qualified guy and hire somebody else to take his place, what in hell happens to the seniority rule? Answer me that?”

  “Screw the seniority rule. I’m asking you as a personal favor, Al. I just don’t want to get into a hassle with anybody now.” He lowered his voice. “You see, Edie is pregnant. I don’t want her upset.”

  “Hey, that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Herzog. “Congratulations! All right, Rog, I get the picture. I’ll talk it over with the guys and tell them what you said. We’ll do what’s right.”

  But the next day there was a new table set up on the Marble with a large poster with a picture of an outsize baseball bat: “SIGN FOR FINE! HE WENT TO BAT FOR YOU—NOW GO TO BAT FOR HIM!”

  Seated behind the table, urging passersby to sign the petition, was Nicholas Ekkedaminopoulos, called Ekko by all who knew him, even his instructors. He was older than his classmates, having already served in the Army, and he stood out from among the other students because he was clean-shaven—not only his swarthy face but his entire head. As he explained, “My old man is bald, my uncle is bald. And now I’m getting bald. It runs in the family. My old man, he combs the few hairs he’s got on the side across the top and plasters them down. My uncle, he’s a swinger with a pretty wife, so he spends a fortune on all kinds of treatments and oils and grease—and he’s still bald. But me, I figure why fight it? So I shaved it all off.”

  Roger Fine knew him well; they were the same age and had both served in Vietnam. They had become close friends. They worked together on recruiting black students, and Fine had invited him to Barnard’s Crossing during the summer.

  Walking across the Marble, he saw the sign and hurried over to the table. “What the hell is going on, Ekko?” he demanded. “Who put you up to this?”

  “Now, Rog, it was officially decided by the Student Activists.”

  “Don’t give me any of that official crap, Ekko. You know goddam well that the Student Activists are just the half dozen of you on the executive committee. I want to know who put you up to this. Was it Al Herzog?”

  “That windbag? Jesus no.” Ekko lowered his voice. “Things are getting tough, Rog. Three years ago when I was a freshman, get up a petition for anything you can think of and before lunch was over you’d have five hundred signatures. They wouldn’t even look what they’re signing. But here we been sitting since the beginning of school trying to line up some support for our program and we’re lucky if we got fifty signatures. They got all sorts of cop-outs. The coed dorm? Chicks say they can’t put their name down, because it’s like advertising they’re an easy lay. Or even voluntary exams. You’d think anyone would go for that, but no, they say if they got to take exams why shouldn’t everyone? Then the administration goes and shafts you. So we figured here’s a great opportunity. You’ve got lots of friends in school and we could get lots of signatures. So at the same time they’re signing the petition for you we thought—what the hell—we’ll get them to sign the S.A. Resolution, too. And it worked!” he said triumphantly. “I been sitting here only a couple of hours and already I got thirty signatures on your petition, and six of them signed the resolution.”

  Fine shook his head in exasperation. “Did it ever occur to you to ask me before you got up this petition? Did it ever occur to you that it might interfere with my own plans?”

  “Jeez, Roger, we thought you’d be pleased. Besides, if we didn’t do it, the SDS would. Maybe even the Weath-ervane crazies. You’d rather have us doing it than them, wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, I don’t like it, Ekko. I want it stopped.”

  “OK, if that’s the way you want it. Excuse me a minute—” He grabbed a student who was with a girl. “Hey Bongo, come on sign a petition for Professor Fine!”

  Roger Fine hurried away.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  What have you got against John Hendryx, Dad?” asked Betty Macomber. It was Mrs. Childs’ night off, and Betty was clearing the dinner dishes while he glanced through the evening paper.

  “Hendryx? Oh, the new man in English?”

  “New! He’s been here two and a half years.”

  “Really. It just shows how time flies. Why, I have nothing against him.”

  “Then why hasn’t he been appointed chairman of the department? Why is he only acting chairman?”

  President Macomber put his paper aside and looked up at his daughter. She was tall and blonde; “my Viking princess” he had been fond of calling her when she was a little girl. Although her face showed planes of maturity, it was unlined and still attractive. “It’s regulations,” he began. “A chairman of a department is required to have tenure, and that takes a minimum of three years. Hendryx hasn’t been with us that long. So naturally he can only be acting chairman.”

  “But in the past people have been made chairman of their departments without tenure,” she persisted. “You told me yourself that Professor Malkowitz was made chairman of the Math Department the day he was hired.”

  “Malkowitz was a special case. He wouldn’t have come to Windemere otherwise, and we were very anxious to get him. The trustees had to grant him tenure by special vote.”

  She put aside the bread tray and salad bowl she was carrying and sat on the hassock at his feet. “Well, why can’t you do the same thing for Professor Hendryx?”

  He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Professor Malkowitz has a national reputation. He’s an extremely capable man.”

  “And you have doubts about Professor Hendryx’s ability?”

  There was no doubt about the challenge in her voice. He tried to blunt it with a light answe
r. “Well, one thing I can say about him. He certainly knows how to enlist female support.” He smiled. “For months now Millicent Hanbury has been after me about him, and now you. I can understand her attitude. They’re old friends, I gather, or at least they both come from the same hometown. But you, I didn’t think you even knew him.”

  “I met him the day I got back. He was at the Sorensons’ party.”

  “Oh?”

  “And I’ve seen quite a bit of him since,” she added offhandedly.

  But he wasn’t fooled. “He complained about his treatment here?”

  “No, it wasn’t that,” she said. “But when I happened to refer to him as chairman of the English Department, he made a point of correcting me and explained he was only acting chairman.” She paused. “It you know anything against him, Father, I’d like to hear it.”

  Realizing that her interest was more than impersonal concern for a faculty member, he began cautiously. “He has a good degree. Harvard, I think. And I understand he’s published some. But when you’ve been at this game as long as I have, you get a kind of feeling about faculty people. In the last ten years, before coming here, he’s had three different jobs. And why would he come here at all? Were a small college, not too well known. With that kind of background he should have been able to wangle a job at one of the prestige colleges by this time.”

  “Your precious Malkowitz came here.”

  “Ah, but we went after him and made it worth his while. Professor Hendryx, on the other hand, came to us, and at midyears.”

  “Maybe he prefers a small college. A lot of men do.”

  He nodded. “But his last job was at a small college—Jeremiah Logan College in Tennessee. Why didn’t he stay there?”

  “Just because it’s in Tennessee, I suppose. Any New Englander is apt to feel like a fish out of water in a small Southern town.”

  “True,” he acknowledged, “and it’s what I thought until I bumped into the chancellor of Jeremiah Logan at the College Presidents Association meeting last year. I mentioned Hendryx. Now you know, these days an administrator, any employer for that matter, has to be very careful of what he says about a former employee. You can be sued if you say something you know perfectly well but can’t prove. That’s why we don’t pay too much attention to the run-of-the-mill recommendation. Well, this man from Jeremiah Logan was even more cautious than most, but I was able to gather that Hendryx had been in some trouble down there—about a girl, one of the coeds.”