Wednesday the Rabbi Got Wet

by Harry Kemelman

  “There’s nothing in the motion to indicate it,” said Goodman. “The motion doesn’t say that the property is to be used as a retreat. Speaking for myself, I voted for it because I thought it was a good deal for the temple, but I was thinking of it more as a summer camp for the kids.” He could see that the rabbi was angry, and remembering occasions in the past when he had wrangled with him, he was only too happy to add to his vexation.

  The rabbi tried hard to recover his aplomb. He sat down and even managed a smile. “All right,” he said, “then I move for a reconsideration of the motion to sell the Goralsky Block.”

  “It’s the same motion,” said the secretary.

  The board of members grinned as they realized the cleverness of their chairman in wording the motion in such a way as to include both the purchase of the Petersville property and the sale of the Goralsky Block.

  “These are two separate actions,” the rabbi said. “You can’t tie them together just by putting them into a single motion.”

  “Why not; Congress does it all the time,” Goodman said. “If that’s the way the motion reads, then that’s the motion.”

  And in a whisper to a neighbor, “It looks as though the rabbi is up a tree.”

  Kaplan considered. “I can see a certain justice in your contention, Rabbi. I’ll permit it. Do I hear a second?”

  “What are we considering now?” the secretary asked. “I’ve lost track.”

  “The rabbi has moved that we reconsider the motion to sell the Goralsky Block, and in spite of the valid objection of the secretary that it is part of the motion to buy the Petersville property, I’m allowing it. Now do I hear a second?”

  Again silence.

  Kaplan smiled. Several grinned and winked at each other in self-approval. Paul Goodman laughed out loud.

  “It looks as though the members are convinced they were right the first time, Rabbi,” said Kaplan.

  “Or were well drilled,” the rabbi retorted. “You leave me no choice but to call for a Din Torah.”

  “What did he say? A Din Torah? What’s a Din Torah?”

  “It’s like a trial. He’s summonsing us like to a trial.”

  “How can he do that?”

  “Just a minute, Rabbi,” Kaplan said, his placidity somewhat dented. “Who are you calling to a Din Torah?”

  “All of you, individually and collectively.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Kaplan said. “You’re planning to hold a trial or a special hearing and you’re going to call us to—”

  “I have no choice,” said the rabbi demurely. “There has been a serious breach of halacha—”

  “What’s he talking about?”

  “What’s halacha?”

  “He says we broke the law.”

  “What law? Is he accusing us—”

  “Order, order. Let’s have order, gentlemen.” Kaplan banged his gavel. Taking advantage of the momentary silence, he said, “Let me get this straight, Rabbi. I know you’re opposed to this. You told me so. Are you now planning to set up some kind of trial with yourself as judge and jury as well as plaintiff?”

  “That is a valid objection, Mr. Chairman,” the rabbi admitted. “I’m not neutral in this matter. So I plan to present the matter to the Greater Boston Rabbinic Council. I presume if they find merit in my plea, they will appoint someone, a rabbi who has standing as a Talmudist, someone like Rabbi Jacobs of Boston, perhaps, and two dayanim who will ask both sides to appear before them and present their views.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “What if we don’t go?”

  “Then they’d notify the press and make a stink,” came a whispered reply.

  Kaplan looked about him and made a rapid count. Of the twenty who were present, a good dozen were his close associates who came to his Wednesday At Homes regularly and joined him in the retreats at Petersville. Of the others, some had no interest in the retreat, but considered it a good buy for the temple. As for the rest, while they had no strong convictions about the need for a retreat, they were, like Paul Goodman, solidly against the rabbi. So what did he have to fear? He faced the rabbi. “What is it that you want, Rabbi?” he asked.

  “I want to be heard on this motion.”

  “All right, then I second the motion to reconsider,” said Kaplan.

  “Hey, Chet—we agreed—”

  “You can’t do that, Chet. You’re the chairman.”

  “So I vacate the chair. Aaron, will you take the chair, please?” he asked of the vice-president.

  “Sure, Chet.”

  “Mr. Chairman.”

  “Mr. Kaplan.”

  “I rise to second the rabbi’s motion to reconsider,” said Kaplan.

  “A motion has been made and seconded to reconsider the motion to sell the Goralsky Block and buy the Petersville property,” said the vice-president. “Discussion. Yes, Rabbi.”

  “The reason for my insistence on being heard,” the rabbi began easily, “is that I feel that you are all decent, fair-minded men and will do what’s right if you have all the facts. Now I think you’ll all agree that if anyone should respect the wishes of the testator of a will, it should be the beneficiaries, those who profit from his benevolence. Well, the temple received a valuable property from Mr. Goralsky, and I feel that the least we can do to show our appreciation is to abide by his wishes concerning it.”

  “If you’re referring to the clause that says we should use it for a school or for a permanent residence for the rabbi—”

  “No, Mr. Kaplan, I’m not concerned with that clause. I recognize that Mr. Goralsky probably would not have wanted the use of the property to be restricted that way. But to make sure, I took the trouble to see his son, Ben. He confirmed my opinion. There’s no problem on that score. I’m referring to Mr. Goralsky’s wishes with respect to Aptaker and the store he occupies.”

  “Aptaker? Who’s he?” asked Goodman.

  “He’s the guy that runs the drugstore in the block.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Reinhardt,” said the rabbi. “He got a heart attack the same day that he received a letter from Mr. Kaplan telling him that the block was being sold and that he should apply to the new owner for the renewal of the lease he had requested. His wife thinks that’s what triggered the attack.”

  “Oh, but you can’t blame the temple for that.” Paul Goodman was shocked.

  “That’s right,” said Dr. Muntz. “You can’t tell how a man is going to react to bad news—or good news either. I had a patient who had a heart attack when he heard he’d won the state lottery.”

  “I’m not blaming you for Mr. Aptaker’s heart attack,” the rabbi replied. “I’m blaming you for disregarding Mr. Goralsky’s wishes and not renewing Aptaker’s lease.”

  “When that property came into our hands, it became our property,” said Kaplan, “and we were free to manage and develop it as we saw fit. Since we were going to sell it, naturally I wouldn’t renew Aptaker’s lease, because that could kill the sale. When the board voted to sell, I wrote to Aptaker, told him that there was a new owner, or that there would be as soon as papers were passed and suggested he apply to him for renewal on his lease. I can’t be responsible for what Safferstein does once he takes over. It’s a straight business deal.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” the rabbi said sadly. “The temple sells the property because it is good business. And a small man like Aptaker who spent his life building up a business is tossed out on the street, and it’s all right because it’s business.”

  “It happens all the time, Rabbi,” Kaplan pointed out. “You can’t stand in the way of progress.”

  “Progress!”

  Kaplan grinned. “All right, then change. You can’t stand in the way of change, either.”

  The rabbi nodded. “Yes, in the face of change, the individual sometimes gets run over. It’s all a matter of business, as you say. But is this the sort of business the temple should be engaged in? Ours is an ethical religion. Is this what an
institution dedicated to that religion should do?”

  “Well, speaking as a lawyer,” Goodman said, “I say if it’s legal, it’s ethical.”

  “All right, Mr. Goodman, so let’s consider if it’s legal.” The rabbi stopped and picked up a briefcase from the floor and set it on the table in front of him. “I have here the correspondence of Mr. Aptaker on the matter of the renewal of his lease, first with Mr. Goralsky and then with Mr. Kaplan. I’ll pass it around later if you like, but I can summarize it for you.” He drew a sheaf of papers from the case. “Here is Mr. Aptaker’s request for a renewal of his lease which is due to expire in a few months. And here is Mr. Goralsky’s reply.” He read the letter to them. “Notice the wording; not the usual business style, is it? I asked his secretary about it. She remembered it very well because she had had to do the letter twice. The first time, she edited his dictation as she usually did to conform to normal business usage. But this time Mr. Goralsky was annoyed with her for it and insisted she should write it the way he dictated it because he wanted to show Aptaker that he appreciated the way he had dealt with him over the years. So she rewrote the letter and, perhaps a little spitefully, worded it pretty much as he gave it to her. That letter he signed, and the lawyers were notified accordingly and prepared the leases.”

  “Yeah, but then Aptaker got greedy,” Kaplan said. “He wanted to have one of the clauses struck out, as I recall.”

  “That’s right,” the rabbi agreed. “He wrote back to say that the clause calling for him to insure his plate glass had been crossed out in the previous lease and that he’d like to have it left out of this one as well.”

  “And what did Goralsky say to that?” demanded Goodman.

  “He didn’t. He died.”

  “Well, I guess that was Aptaker’s tough luck then,” said Goodman.

  “The letter to Aptaker was written after Mr. Goralsky took to his bed in the illness that finally carried him off. That’s when he wrote his will, too,” the rabbi pointed out.

  Goodman shrugged. “So what? No mention was made of it in the will and it’s what’s in the will that counts.”

  “Not in Jewish law,” said the rabbi.

  “What’s that?”

  “What do you mean?” Kaplan demanded. “Who says so?”

  “The Talmudic tractate Gittin says so, as well as the Shulchan Aruch. In Jewish law, that is to say in Talmudic law, a distinction is made in the matter of wills on the basis of the physical condition of the testator. If the testator is bari, that is, healthy, then the law is as the secular law: only what is in the will counts. But if the testator is shechiv me-ra, that is, seriously sick and confined to his bed, and even more if it is a terminal illness as in Mr. Goralsky’s case, then the law requires that his wishes are to be carried out even if not stated in the will. The reason for this special exception to the law is that it serves to give the dying man peace of mind in his last days. Now, it was clearly Mr. Goralsky’s wish that Aptaker be permitted to renew his lease, so according to Jewish law, it has the same force as though it were so stated in the will.”

  “Yeah, but how were we expected to know that?” Goodman asked.

  “You are not, which is why you are expected to consult with the rabbi of the congregation,” said the rabbi sweetly.

  “No, I mean what Goralsky intended for Aptaker.”

  “Ah, because Aptaker mentioned it in his letter to the temple. Let me read it.” He selected a paper from the folder and then pushed his eyeglasses up on his forehead to see more clearly. “Here it is. ‘Shortly before his death Mr. Goralsky agreed to renew my lease on the same terms and was kind enough to say that he was glad to do it because he considered me a good tenant as per enclosed letter.’ And that’s a copy of the letter I just read you.”

  The board members stirred uneasily in their seats, casting glances at Kaplan as though looking to him for direction. Dr. Muntz spoke for the first time. “Then are you saying, Rabbi, that the temple is bound by Talmudic law to honor Aptaker’s request for renewal because that’s what Mr. Goralsky wanted?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Doctor.” The rabbi looked about him triumphantly.

  Kaplan bestirred himself. “Just a minute, Rabbi. I’m no Talmudist, but my father-in-law was, and Edie and I lived with him for a few years when we were first married and I was going to law school. We had a lot of discussions about law in general, and as I recall, he said that where there was a difference between Talmudic law and the law of the country, it was the country law that applied.”

  The rabbi nodded. “Dina de-malchuta, dina. The law of the land is the law.”

  “Well then …” Kaplan sat back in his chair, a smirk of satisfaction on his face.

  “But the principle is severely restricted,” said the rabbi with a smile. “Some rabbis hold that it should be applied only in those matters where the administration of the country alone is concerned, as in taxation. Obviously, it could not have complete application or the Talmud, the Oral Law, which like the Written Law, the Torah, we believe to be the word of God, would be completely invalidated. No, no, it’s only where our law runs counter to the secular law, where it is in actual disagreement with it, where something we consider legal is actually illegal according to secular law, that the principle applies, and that for obviously purely practical purposes.”

  “Give us a for-instance, Rabbi,” Dr. Muntz suggested.

  “All right. Since we’re talking about wills, I’ll give you an example from the laws of inheritance. If a man dies intestate, then according to secular law in our country, his estate is divided between his surviving wife and his children, male and female, who share equally. In Jewish law, however, the estate is shared only by the male children, with the firstborn taking a double portion/The maintenance of the unmarried daughters and their dowries are charges on the estate, however, and take precedence over the inheritance of the sons. Obviously, in a matter of this sort, it would be the secular law that would apply. On the other hand, consider the case of a woman getting a divorce from the secular courts. By secular law, she is free to remarry. But not in Jewish law until she has obtained a Jewish divorce, a get. Here, the Jewish law is not contrary to the secular law; it is additional to it. Similarly, in the present instance, both the Jewish law and the secular law are interested in having the wishes of the testator carried out. For administrative reasons, obviously, and to prevent interminable litigation, the secular law requires that his wishes be expressed in a will, and that what is not stated in the will is not binding on the heirs. The Jewish law is in agreement, except in the case of the schechiv me-ra, the sick, dying man. Here, we say, for the sake of his peace of mind in his last days, we will consider his wishes binding even if he does not get around to having them spelled out in the will.”

  “But that’s just your interpretation, Rabbi,” Kaplan said doggedly. “As I see it, we have a right to follow the secular law, especially where the money from the sale of the property is going to be used for a truly religious purpose, for the revival of religion—”

  “Religion!” The rabbi was scornful. “Religion with us is ethical conduct. You are an observant Jew, Mr. Kaplan. You pray daily with the phylacteries. You kiss the mezzuzah that is affixed to the lintel of your door when you pass it. But what are these if not reminders to walk in the way of the Lord? If they are not that, then your piety, your meticulous observance of the ceremonials is just so much mumbo jumbo. ‘What to me are your sacrifices?’ the prophet said. ‘Your Sabbaths and New Moons, my soul hateth…. Rather, cease to do evil … seek justice, relieve the oppressed.’” Warmed by his own rhetoric, he went on, his voice rising, “You may be reviving religion up there in your retreat in the woods, but it’s not the Jewish religion. And if this is the direction in which our temple is turning, I want no part of it.”

  As if to punctuate the rabbi’s exhortation, a bell rang throughout the building, startling the men in the room. It was the bell signaling the end of the Sunday-school sessi
on.

  The secretary looked at his watch in disbelief. “Jeez, it’s twelve o’clock. Look, I’ve got to take my kid home. The wife raises hell if we’re late.” He slapped his notebook closed and rose from his chair.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Kaplan raised his hands to stop what threatened to become a general exodus. “Look, men, we can’t leave it like this. We’ve got to—”

  “Lay it on the table until next week.”

  “Just a minute, just one minute. You’re acting like a bunch of kids. Let’s do this in an orderly fashion. Somebody make a motion.”

  “All right. I make a motion that we lay the rabbi’s motion for reconsideration on the table.”

  “Second.”

  “Rabbi? All right with you?”

  “Well, I feel there should be more discussion—”

  “Look, Chet, on an important matter we always hold it over for a week at least.”

  “You didn’t on the original motion that I’m asking you to reconsider,” the rabbi observed.

  “Can I say something?” Dr. Muntz called out. “The way I see it, the rabbi thinks Aptaker ought to get his lease renewed. All right, how do we know Bill Safferstein won’t renew it? If he renewed it, then everything is okay, halacha-wise, isn’t it, Rabbi?”

  “He won’t,” said Kaplan. “I know he won’t.”

  “It won’t do any harm to ask him, will it?”

  “All right, so I’ll ask him, but I know he will not agree.”

  “Then I make a motion that we lay this matter on the table until our chairman has a chance to speak to Safferstein about Aptaker’s lease.”

  “Second the motion.”

  “All in favor, say aye. Oppose, nay. The ayes have it. Now I’ll have a motion to adjourn. Paul?”

  “I’m not making a motion to adjourn, Chet,” Goodman said. “I will if you want me to, of course. I asked for the floor because I think the rabbi ought not to be present next week when we discuss this matter. I don’t think it should be a motion—”

  “Why shouldn’t the rabbi be here?” Muntz asked. “Seems to me since he brought it up—”