The old man paused.
“Oh,” responded Kagan politely.
“That’s how far it can go!” the old man declared. “Whether it will go that far or not is another matter. Who knows?” he shrugged.
“Uh-huh. Listen,” said Kagan, “the Nazi who shot the rabbi….”
“May his name be erased forever!” the old man interrupted in splenetic outburst.
“Of course,” agreed Kagan, “but if that act was necessary, like the death of the Ten Martyrs, can you blame him?”
“Blame him?” the old man yelled. “He’s a murderer! There is never any messenger to do evil. Whoever does the act is responsible.”
“But God couldn’t stop the death of the Ten Martyrs without destroying the world.”
“God couldn’t, Moe, but man could have. They didn’t have to torture and kill them. If everyone refused to torture them, the Messiah would have come!”
“But isn’t there a quota?” Kagan asked. “Don’t you have to know the quota?”
“No man knows the kvoda, Moe. No one can ever know, even when he is a part of it like Rabbi Hananael.”
Kagan, an anguished Kagan, looked around at the uneasy crowd waiting for the ambulance to arrive.
“And yet — Moe, you must act as if the quota depends on you. For it does since it is a part of the world.”
“Why hasn’t an ambulance arrived to help him?” Kagan called out in pain.
The old man touched Kagan’s arm reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, Kagan. He’ll make it. He always has. And if you want to, you can, too.”
The old man stood up. “It is late. We’d better get back to shul. I’ll wait for you there.”
The old man walked into the crowd. Kagan tried to follow but couldn’t. Working his way out of the crowd, Kagan heard the ambulance’s siren. The police began to clear a path for the ambulance. Realizing he would only be in the way, Kagan decided to walk down toward West End Avenue.
ON West End Avenue, Kagan heard the scream of sirens announce that the victim was on his way to the hospital. As they continued to grow louder, Kagan turned to watch the police car and ambulance pass him. He caught a glimpse of the victim’s limp arm above the blanket. It lay in a green sleeve, darker than a pool table, brighter than a Ping-Pong table. Kagan wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was his imagination, or the motion of the ambulance, but the outstretched hand seemed to flick him a furtive greeting.
Well, thought Kagan, at least one of us will make it. I wonder who he is. Apparently, he’s no angel.
WHO needs angels? Ozzie’s an angel and he tried to corrupt me. A lot of good it does to have an angel if that’s how they behave. What did I ever do to him for him to act that way towards me? Boy, would I like to get my hands on him — trying to corrupt me!
Kagan was outraged. The chutzpah of that angel — trying to corrupt me! But he soon found himself wondering why the old man was so all-fire certain that Kagan wasn’t corrupt. I gamble the rest of the week. Instead of charity, I give to shylocks. I take from the righteous poor and give to the criminal rich and I’m not even a congressman. There must be a routine there someplace!
Kagan suddenly didn’t feel like developing any routines. What’s going on? he wondered. All my life I’m convinced that down deep I’m pretty decent, even though most people think I’m not exactly a paragon of virtue, and suddenly someone — who is he, anyway? — someone important comes along and tells me I’m not corrupt, and for the first time I feel corrupt. Not rotten corrupt, but simple corrupt. Look at all the stuff I do: gambling, shylocking, conning people for loans, clocking out early, the lies — my God what a list — and playing games with Fran’s head. Pakooz said it and it’s true. He’s no saint — he’s got his own problems, too — but what’s true is true. I play games with her head. That’s a pretty corrupt thing to do. Look at all the crying she does. I know she’s from Connecticut, but still she cries a lot, too much — and because of me.
Kagan began thinking about the numbers. They didn’t flash through his head or anything snazzy like that. He just plain thought about them, sadly and wistfully. No great thrill and yet he knew that they would win any time he bet them. That’s not gambling, he laughed ruefully to himself, that’s murder. Whose murder? Not Katzi’s, not any bookie’s, not the track’s, not OTB’s. They could afford it. Statistically, it had to happen to them. Whose murder? Mine, Kagan realized. I would piss it all away, probably bet half of it in the first week alone. After having won like that, I would never believe that any numbers I bet could ever lose. My God, what that would be like! Kagan drew back from the abyss of speculation. It’s bad enough as it is. “But who the hell wants to be a saint anyway?” Kagan said aloud in anger. A guy has to have some fun in life. Boredom isn’t going to save the world either.
Kagan walked back toward the shtibl, wondering why he felt depressed in a calm, quiet manner. It wasn’t like him at all. Normally, he was all fireworks, mad dashes, Paul Revere-type rides racing traffic and traffic lights in a Sixty-four Falcon. Yet he found the winning numbers a humbling experience. Why should they be given to me? All because I went to the mikveh? He knew that so much was involved that he couldn’t blame it or place it on anything other than himself and God. It was, after all, their world, a world in which you have to know the quota and no man can. He seemed to possess some understanding, but why wasn’t he in better spirits? He was fasting well. He didn’t even feel hungry, but after what the old man had said, he wasn’t very happy about that either. But the suffering seemed to be present, all right. As Kagan walked uptown, he still wondered what Chaim Der Nechtiger had to do with the goats. As he was wondering, a voice broke in on his thoughts. At first Kagan thought he had imagined it — an echo, maybe — but no, he was there, all right.
“Well, Ozzie, what is it?” Kagan asked in an unfriendly tone.
“Kagan, you’re angry, aren’t you?” the angel said in a raspy voice.
“Wouldn’t you be, Ozzie?” Kagan retorted.
“Yes, you have a right to be angry.”
Ozzie’s voice was so very weak.
“I can hardly hear you, Ozzie. Are you fasting?” Kagan asked.
The angel burst out with a peal of bitter, manic laughter, “Sort of, Kagan!” And then he added, “He told you, didn’t he?”
“Enough,” said Kagan. “Say, who is he anyhow? I forgot to ask.”
The angel laughed. Bitterness pierced the hilarity and Kagan felt uncomfortable.
“You do know who he is, don’t you?” Kagan insisted.
“I even know who the mikveh man is,” the angel said soberly.
And Kagan suddenly realized where he had previously heard “quota” pronounced “kvoda.”
“They have the same voice,” Kagan observed.
“They should,” said the angel. “They are the same person.”
“The same person?” asked Kagan confounded.
“He plays different roles. You know how many faces a man has,” Ozzie said with sarcastic denigration.
“I guess so,” Kagan agreed reluctantly, uncertain that he knew what Ozzie was talking about.
“But the one you spoke to this afternoon, that was the real one, I would say. His basic, unadorned self.”
“You do know who he is, don’t you?” Kagan pressed.
“Only too well, Kagan,” the angel paused. “You had the pleasure of spending an hour on a Broadway bench across from your local Burger King with the Prophet Elijah.”
“Really!?” said Kagan. “Me and Elijah the Prophet!”
“Yes,” the angel answered.
“Are you sure?”
The angel laughed quietly, even appreciatively.
“That’s not the way you pictured him, is it?” Ozzie asked.
“No, I imagined that the Prophet Elijah would be a little neater, but he’s a....”
“A slob?” the angel suggested.
Kagan didn’t want to say it. When it came to religious stuff, Kagan was supri
singly respectful, but the truth was the truth and the day was Yom Kippur. “Yes,” Kagan confessed quietly.
“That’s the only thing that surprised you about him?” Ozzie pressed.
“No,” Kagan admitted. “He didn’t seem too sure of his understanding. I thought he would be brighter.”
“And he seemed like a dunce, didn’t he?” the angel laughed.
“Well — yes,” Kagan agreed.
“Moe, I’ll tell you the truth. I think he is a dunce.”
“You do, Ozzie?”
“Yes, I do. And yet — that dunce has outsmarted more angels and won more arguments with God than you can ever believe.”
“Because he’s made in God’s image?” Kagan suggested.
“Frankly, Moe, that strikes me as blasphemy. Whatever else you may say about God. He certainly isn’t a dunce.”
“Ozzie, I didn’t mean that!” Kagan protested.
“Well, what did you mean?” the angel asked sharply.
“I don’t know,” wondered Kagan.
“Don’t feel bad. Neither do I,” Ozzie acknowledged. “None of the angels do. I never understood all the fuss over Adam in the first place.”
“You didn’t?” asked Kagan.
“How could I? ‘Man is a thief,’ I said. God said, ‘If he weren’t a thief, he would never earn a living.’ ‘Man is lewd,’ I said. ‘He has to be,’ God said. ‘If he weren’t, he wouldn’t take a wife and people the earth.’”
“And yet,” Kagan said, “man is made in God’s image.”
“Yes,” Ozzie admitted. “Now you sound like Elijah.”
“Thanks a lot,” Kagan said sarcastically.
“Low I.Q. or not, Moe, you should have half the success he has had,” the angel pronounced.
“Why?” asked Kagan.
“Elijah has faith and humility. That seems to get him through,” Ozzie said.
“No,” said Kagan, “not that. Why, Ozzie?”
“Why what?” answered Ozzie.
“Why did you do what you did?” Kagan insisted.
“I was an angel,” Ozzie said.
“No,” said Kagan, “why did you try and corrupt me?”
There was no answer.
“What did I ever do to you to deserve that?” Kagan added in a hurt tone.
“Moe, it goes way back. It was nothing personal.”
“‘Nothing personal,’ he says! He tries to corrupt me and he says it’s nothing personal.”
“You have a right to be mad, Moe, but it wasn’t the way you make it sound. It was more of a class thing. I’m an angel and you’re a man.”
“But why?” Kagan demanded.
“You seemed like a good target. No one gets corrupted who doesn’t want to be. After all, man has free will.”
“But why, Ozzie? Just to be mean?”
“Look, Moe, it’s like Elijah told you,” Ozzie began in weak, embarrassed tones.
“I want to hear it from you!” Kagan demanded. “Elijah said that you were one of the best.”
“What a cagey old guy. He always gives credit; I’ll say that for him. I’ll tell you, Moe, because I don’t think it will make any difference now. Like I said, it goes way back. Men seemed pretty rotten to the angels and to me especially. Angels sang praises in heaven and men sinned. And yet man possessed the earth. So I asked God, ‘Why do you have mercy on them?’ And God answered that if I would be among them, I would fail, too. Of course, we angels wanted to inhabit the earth in place of man. Like I said, Moe, it’s a class thing. ‘We will sanctify Your Name,’ we said; so we accepted the challenge and came down among men.”
Ozzie paused.
“And?” Kagan inquired curiously.
“We failed,” the angel rasped.
“You did,” Kagan said in wonderment.
“Why do you think I chase every skirt in creation?” Ozzie asked in bitter frustration at Kagan’s obtuseness.
“Oh,” said Kagan, “that’s where your hot pants come from.”
“Burning hot,” the angel added in self-pity.
“You said ‘we.’ What happened to the others?” Kagan asked.
“Every one of us failed. Some fell for theft. Some for money. Some for food. The works, Kagan. We didn’t last too long.”
“Where are the others now? Floating around like you?” Kagan asked.
“No-o-o,” Ozzie said slowly.
“Well, where are they?”
“Back in heaven where they belong,” the angel said quietly.
“Why aren’t you there with them?”
“They did penitence....”
“And you didn’t?” Kagan volunteered.
“Uh-huh,” the angel grunted.
“Why not? You were the best,” asked Kagan, respectful but perplexed.
“You ask too many questions!” the angel snapped.
“Forgive my prying, Ozzie.”
There was a silence.
“Ozzie?” Kagan asked.
“Yes?”
“Where are you Yom Kippur?”
The angel laughed his mad, bitter laugh. “Since I cannot return to heaven, on Yom Kippur I remain in the desert to close the mouth of Israel’s accuser and to serve as a warning to others to be silent. The scapegoat is sent to me, Azazel, to remind others of my fate for I bear the sins of Israel.”
The angel rasped his weird laugh.
“My God! You’re Azazel!”
“Didn’t Elijah tell you? No, I guess that humble old dunce would never gossip. That’s another one of his winning tactics.”
“But you told me your name is Ozzie,” Kagan said indignantly.
“For heaven’s sake, Moe, did you tell me your name was Maurice?” the angel asked petulantly.
“No,” said Moe Kagan.
“Well, it’s the same thing. Who wants to be called Maurice? Do you think Azazel is any better?”
“No, I guess not,” Kagan admitted. “Moe and Ozzie sound a heck of a lot better. But why aren’t you out in the desert now?”
“It’s complicated; I am. And all of me will be back in a moment. I just wanted to say goodbye,” the angel answered.
“Goodbye?” asked Kagan.
“Yes, goodbye, Moe. You’re going to make it. I would bet on you.”
“Why is everyone betting on me?” Kagan shouted anxiously.
“Well, you never got too righteous, for one thing,” the angel said.
“But look at all the lousy things I’ve done. Look at all the lousy things I do. You can’t bet on me! No one can bet, period,” and he realized how crazy a thing betting really was.
“Whose side are you on, anyway? Moe, betting is crazy but this is more of faith.”
“But I don’t want to be a saint, Ozzie!” Kagan called out in anguish.
The angel laughed, “Moe, there’s not much chance of that!”
Although still fearful, Kagan felt relieved.
“Well, I’d better say goodbye, Moe.”
“Ozzie, if you came to corrupt me, why did you come to say goodbye?” Kagan asked.
“Kagan, I’ve corrupted better, brighter, and more talented than you, but, Moe, you’re good company.”
Kagan felt a surge of pride and satisfaction that all those years spent hanging out in the candy store weren’t wasted.
“I enjoyed you, too, Ozzie. It’s not everyone who has an angel, you know.”
“I tried to corrupt you, Moe. I probably still would if I could,” the angel said honestly.
“Yeah, I know. But, Ozzie, I’m a lousy hater. You know that. I get hot, but I never could hold a grudge. Say, listen, even if I do make it, maybe you’ll still drop by occasionally,” Kagan said warmly.
“It doesn’t work that way, Moe.”
“Ozzie, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” Kagan said.
“No?”
“No, Ozzie. Elijah told me some other stuff, too, you know,” Kagan said proudly. “Some angels were sent to announce the destruction of Sodom to Abrah
am....”
“Lot,” Ozzie interrupted. “Not to Abraham, to Lot, Abraham’s nephew.”
“Oh, you know the story then?” Kagan asked, slightly embarrassed.
“Uh-huh,” Ozzie answered.
“And yet,” Kagan continued, “because of Jacob’s righteousness the angels were permitted to return to heaven. He redeemed them in his dream. They were the angels climbing the ladder back to heaven.”
The angel didn’t say a thing.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Kagan demanded.
“Yes, it’s true,” the angel confessed quietly.
“Well?” Kagan insisted.
“Moe, it’s true all right,” Ozzie began.
“So?”
“Forgive me for saying so, Moe, but those angels weren’t the best. I’m not Lot’s angels. I’m Azazel and you’re not Jacob — and — you already had your dream.”
“Say,” said Kagan, swiftly changing the topic, “what’s this Chaim From Yesterday business all about anyway?”
“No idea,” the angel answered.
“Never mind,” said Kagan switching back. “Maybe I can’t help you but someone else might. You never know, Ozzie. Guys like Truman and Mr. Isaacson can fool you.”
“Maybe,” Ozzie said without much enthusiasm.
“Ozzie?” Kagan asked hesitantly.
“Yes, Moe.”
“I know you’re in a hurry, and I have to get back to pray, but do you think you could teach me a little Torah?”
“Well, I guess a little, Moe.”
“Good,” said Kagan in anticipation.
“Do you remember what we talked about yesterday afternoon? The Jews had sinned with the golden calf and Moses broke the tablets of the Law?” Ozzie asked.
“Yes,” Kagan said, wondering whether Ozzie was playing ball with him after all.
“Well,” the angel said in a hollow, unemotional voice, “not only did God say, ‘The show must go on!’ but also Moses turned around and ran right back up the mountain, hoping to get a new set. After another forty days and nights, Moses received the second set of tablets. This time he descended and the Jews accepted the Torah with all their hearts. And that day was Yom Kippur. Yom Kippur is a wedding day for it is the day Israel accepted God’s Torah.”
Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories Page 14