Rabbi Gabrielle's Defiance

by Roger Herst

  "Marc Sutterfeld is a killer lawyer. All he has to do is parade Tybee Morgenstern into court and a jury will start weeping. Every tear is worth a million dollars."

  "If that's true, he'll reject just about any offer."

  "Perhaps not. I've read you don't always collect everything a jury awards. But in a settlement, the plaintiff gets cold cash up front. You don't have to wait a decade before receiving the moolah. Otherwise, no deal."

  "Okay, counselor, when do you start law school? Tell Mr. McKesson I'll be there on Tuesday. I'll discuss this with Asa."

  ***

  Asa Folkman was conducting a funeral and did not respond to Gabby's message until late afternoon. When he finally came to her study, he was dressed in a tailored dark gray suit with a silver-striped necktie, a torn black funereal ribbon in his lapel. Gabby credited Anina with elevating Aas's attention to attire, fashioning a handsome male into an elegant male. Usually a funeral would drag him into a somber mood, but this afternoon he seemed unusually chipper.

  "I listened again to A Jazzman's Sorrow," she reported, her voice upbeat and enthusiastic. "And now I understand what Reuben is raving about."

  "It's unbelievable to me, Gabby," he permitted a smile of pride to spread over his lower face. "Word spreads like wildfire and so do pirated copies of the CD. A private foundation in St. Louis called to inquire if I wanted to submit my composition for a contest. First prize is a very generous commission to write a full symphonic work. And now the San Francisco Symphony Foundation wants to fly me there to talk about scoring Jazzman. I've tentatively agreed to travel west on Sunday afternoon, after Religious School. Monday is my normal day off. I expect to be back very late Tuesday evening. I hope that works in your schedule."

  So this is why his spirits were so high, she thought to herself. At that moment, she experienced a premonition that Asa's agony about his work was coming to an end. Some of her premonitions were vague and necessarily uncertain. But this one was strong enough to bet a large sum upon. She felt elevated by being in the company of a skilled craftsman, one whom Reuben called a genius. Still, Asa's timing couldn't be worse for her race to win a seat in Congress.

  "Lawyers for Dominion Mutual want us to meet with them Tuesday morning in Baltimore. Can you make it back Monday night?"

  "My meeting with the foundation people is Tuesday morning. What's this Baltimore meeting about?"

  "They didn't provide an agenda. Stan Melkin will tell us. Chuck thinks Dominion wants to sweeten a settlement offer."

  "The best of all lousy worlds," he shook his head and mumbled. "The synagogue is only covered for ten mil. They've already offered seven and a half. There isn't much more to give."

  "If we settle, that's an overt omission of guilt, you understand. It would say that Ohav Shalom acknowledges its responsibility, which I categorically deny."

  "Does it matter, Gabby? The important thing is to care for Tybee's needs. I feel like a bad smell that everybody in this congregation wants to be rid of."

  "Certainly not me, friend. When you're famous for writing music, people will flock around like bees to honey. And when you're an acclaimed composer, the same people who find fault today will boast that you were once their rabbi. People are like that, you know."

  "If you think I should postpone my trip to San Francisco, I will."

  She wanted to say yes, but knew it was not in his interest. His good nature had been exploited too often already. Since the congregation failed to acknowledge his rabbinical talents, he owed it nothing. "No, Asa. I want you to go. You deserve this. San Francisco is everybody's favorite city. If possible, take Anina and enjoy yourselves. Visit the redwood trees in Muir Woods and feel how puny things that disturb us really are. I'll go to the Baltimore meeting. Just let me know your feelings about a settlement and I'll present them there."

  A fist went up to his face and stopped before his lips, through which he blew air. "Whatever the insurance company will pay. If I make any money from A Jazzman's Sorrow I'm going to give the proceeds to Tybee's medical expenses or her future education. That's the least I can do."

  Gabby's sigh was audible. "Keep your money; you earned it fair and square. In my judgment you don't owe poor Tybee a cent. It was an accident, not of your making. Let Dominion Mutual pay the bill. That's why they collect premiums."

  "I intend to write a concerto in Janean's memory."

  "That would be lovely, Asa. I'm sure she would appreciate that. But please, when you do, don't make her ministering angels weep."

  ***

  A feature profile of Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn in Sunday morning's Style Section of The Washington Post caught readers by surprise. Yes, Chuck Browner was aware that reporters were asking questions about his boss, but that wasn't unusual. Her part in the televised seder convinced the paper's editors to run the story earlier than scheduled and included her picture at the seder, with Kye Naah, a well-known entrepreneur in Washington's info-tech industry, beside her. The language suggested but did not state in so many words that he was her steady beau.

  Kye saw the story on Sunday morning before attending his church on Wilson Boulevard in suburban Bethesda. Since he had plans to bring Gabby to the church's spring picnic at Great Falls Park that noon, there was no purpose trying to catch her at Ohav Shalom. No doubt her congregants were as surprised as he, though he had no way of evaluating their displeasure.

  Members of the church could have agreed to attend the morning's worship in picnic clothing, but they wouldn't dare recite prayers and sing hymns to the Almighty in inappropriate attires. Multicolored athletic bags filled with a change of outdoor clothing were neatly rowed in the foyer. Despite the picnic, worship this morning proceeded with the formality and decorum of any Sunday.

  Kye had planned to collect Gabby from Ohav Shalom and drive together to Great Falls Park, but the Post article persuaded him to leave a voicemail. Instead of going to her study they should meet outside on the street. Why add to the confusion?

  Eleven minutes past the hour, Gabby approached his Ford van from the rear and unlatched the passenger door and jumped energetically into the seat, exclaiming, "Let's went, amigo. Quick, before somebody ambushes me."

  Turning the ignition, he asked, "What do you think of your profile? It's a great sendoff for the campaign."

  "The paper jumped the gun. I've still got a few more days before I must let Kyle Carberri know my final decision."

  "You're not thinking of quitting on me, are you?"

  "I can't quit if I don't start. I'm not trying to be cute, Kye, and I know what this means to you. That's a major consideration for me."

  "How were things at the religious school this morning?"

  "People stared at me as though I were a Martian. A few said nice things about the seder. They thought it was a refreshing twist. Others wanted assurance that we wouldn't repeat it next year."

  ***

  The Potomac River cleaves a steep canyon between Virginia and Maryland at Great Falls, a seething convulsion of white water that drops 340 feet in a quarter mile. Spring was definitely in the air, but puffy cumulous clouds dotted the sky and a nippy northwestern wind blew along the river. In a picnic area, members of Kye's church shared the tasks of starting barbecue fires, setting tables, unpacking plastic containers filled with ginseng chicken, sticky rice flavored with garlic and kimchi, fermented mixtures of radish and cabbage with hot peppers, onions and heavy salt. Strips of lean beef were readied for the barbecue to be served with cold naengmyon noodles. Foreign zithers and Asian drums from a portable CD player drown out the roar of the river.

  Though Kye assured Gabby that just about everybody at his church knew of her exploits, Korean courtesy demanded that they pretend ignorance. When Kye introduced her as a business associate and friend, none revealed suspicions of something more. She was happy to join Pastor Norman Woo in distributing cups for aromatic iced tea and learn of his keen interest in the biblical origins of Judaism. Questions he posed were schooled and intelligent. Reverend W
oo commented that many at the picnic had watched her seder on television. Most were as surprised as he to find Kye Naah seated beside her at the head table.

  The youngsters disappeared to explore the C&O Canal paralleling the river. Teenagers broke out Frisbees and footballs. Kye, a softball enthusiast, enrolled a half-dozen adolescents in the infield to practice catching his fly balls. Gabby felt useless around the older women preparing lunch and asked to be excused from domestic work to join the baseball players. Once in the field the kids marveled at her ability to throw from deep centerfield all the way to second base.

  Later, she preceded Pastor Woo before a buffet-style selection of lunch foods, whose names resonated from a wholly foreign culture, but whose aromatic smells made her salivate. Pibimpap, bits of beef cooked with vegetables and eggs and seasoned with koch'ujang fiery red peppers, buckwheat noodles with chopped scallions, radishes, cucumbers, and sesame seeds. The women serving over-estimated her appetite and piled large portions on her plate. Word circulated that she was a vegetarian, which was technically incorrect, but it was easier to let the myth go unchallenged than correct the error.

  "Do you think, Rabbi, that Jesus was celebrating the Passover seder during the final supper?" Pastor Woo asked as they moved in tandem toward a vacant picnic table.

  While slipping onto a cedar bench, she said, "That's not my area of expertise. I'm confused by what we Jews call the Inter-testimental Period, years between the codification of the Old and New Testaments. I know equating the Final Supper with Passover is popular, but don't you think it odd that no women were present with Jesus? That's not like any seder we Jews know today, even for those celebrating it in the distant past. It's hard for us to imagine such a festival without women and children in attendance. After all, for us the main purpose is to teach our youngsters."

  A studious expression emerged upon his face as he considered the point. Kye joined them. When it appeared that most of the picnickers were settled Pastor Woo nodded toward Gabby. "Rabbi, would you like to say Grace for us?"

  "I'm afraid I don't say Grace, but we do have blessings to recite before eating."

  "That amounts to the same thing, don't you think?" the Pastor asked.

  "Absolutely," she answered while unraveling her legs from the picnic bench to stand and be heard. To the others, she raised her voice and bellowed over the sound of running water in the nearby river. "In Judaism, we have blessings for just about everything. Our custom is to single out the principle element of the meal, say rice or bread or vegetables and praise God for giving it to us. If it's impossible to determine which is the principle food before you waste away from hunger, you simple say, "Baruch… kol minay mizanot. Blessed is the Lord who gives us a variety of species to eat." With that she scooped up a wad of pickled cabbage with her chopsticks and brought it toward her mouth. Only at the last moment, her grasp on the chopsticks slipped; the wad sailed in a loop and dived onto Pastor Woo's lap.

  A howl of amused laughter erupted. Gabby turned crimson with embarrassment.

  "Not to worry," Kye consoled, a reprimanding scowl trained on those laughing. "Some of the elderly here still can't manipulate a fork."

  The picnickers suddenly realized their rudeness and immediately fell silent. Gabby rallied by snatching a second pile of cabbage and holding it for others to see that she knew how to use chopsticks. "Well now," she said, "let's see if I can do it right this time," then moved it toward her mouth.

  By the end of the afternoon, she was feeling comfortable among Kye's friends. And he, too, displayed his comfort by holding her hand in public.

  ***

  "Sorry to impose upon you to drive," Stan Melkin said as he dropped into the passenger seat of her Volvo with a rectangular brief case on his lap, prepared for the early morning trip to Baltimore. "This is a bad day for me. I must read this brief before a meeting late in the afternoon and I haven't got an extra moment. Afraid I won't be much company until we get there."

  "That's okay," she glanced to her right to find him already coiled around his papers. "I'm used to driving by myself. Sometimes I listen to the radio and sometime a book-on-tape. But more often, I just use the quiet time to let my thoughts roam."

  From the synagogue, she headed north on Wisconsin Avenue to pick up a ramp onto the Capitol Beltway, then Interstate 95 to Baltimore. A light trickle of rain forced her to activate the windshield wipers and headlights. Stan adjusted a thick legal brief atop of his briefcase, aligned reading glasses over his nose, preparing to jot down notes with an old-fashioned brass point fountain pen. He was so engrossed that he failed to notice a speeding motorcyclist weaving between vehicles in front. The young man's antics triggered a sense of danger in Gabby, whose foot moved back and forth from the brake pedal to the accelerator.

  Stan lifted his eyes to catch the cyclist's bravado and exclaimed, "Damn fool. Did you know that bikes kill more people every year than guns? "

  "It doesn't surprise me – not when drivers like this burn up the road."

  Stan glanced at his lap, before moving over to Gabby. "We'll probably arrive in Baltimore a bit early. This will probably be the most important meeting of my presidency at Ohav Shalom. That's why I invited the Board of Directors. Five have agreed to meet us there."

  She was about to respond when brake lights ahead indicated slowing traffic. Her uneasiness about the cyclist returned. Within an instant, cars in the right lane were slamming hard on their brakes, while those in the center and left continued to roll forward. Gabby swerved into the outside lane but was forced to brake hard as cars bunched up below a ramp leading from the Beltway. The sight of an upturned Harley Davidson bike, its forward wheel spinning in the air, sent a chill of terror along her spine. She assumed the driver had been thrown off his bike and was somewhere on the ground amid a tangle of stopped vehicles. Perhaps in the chaos one or more had run over him.

  "Stan, my cell phone is in the glove compartment. Call 911 for an ambulance!" she barked with no remorse for the dictatorial tone. "We're only a hop-skip-and-a-jump to Holy Cross Hospital." While he scrambled to find a place for his briefcase and legal papers, she pulled on the parking brake, switched on the emergency lights, then flung open the door. "The motor's running. Move the car when there's room. The kid will be lucky to be alive."

  Stalled vehicles forced her to weave a path to the accident site. A half-dozen other drivers joined her on the tarmac to determine what happened. About thirty feet from the overturned motorcycle, she observed a black figure motionless on the ground – the same youngster who had been weaving recklessly among the cars. The dark visor on the helmet shielded his face from view. A quick survey revealed that other spectators were bewildered, none willing to determine if the cyclist was breathing. An instinct told her to blend into the crowd and let another take this responsibility, but another instinct chided such inactivity. A similar situation had occurred when she was a rabbinic student. It was snowing in Cincinnati and she witnessed from her car a pedestrian hit by a skidding automobile. Instead of leaving her vehicle to offer assistance, she remained frozen behind the wheel, waiting for others to step forward. Her humiliating passivity resulted in a personal pledge – never again to remain a spectator in an emergency.

  She knelt on the asphalt over the biker and called. "Can you hear me? Can you hear my voice?"

  There was no response. She clasped onto the wrist with one hand and probed under the chin for the jugular with the other. If there was a pulse, it was impossible to feel. To the motorists who had gathered around she said, pointing with the hand she removed from the jugular, "See that there's a lane free for an ambulance. He's probably in shock. Ask if anybody's got a blanket. We'll need to get blood flowing back toward his heart."

  "Don't touch him," she recognized Stan Melkin's voice over her shoulder. "Gabby, this isn't a good idea. You're not a doctor. People get sued all the time for impersonating physicians. If anything goes wrong, they'll blame you for interference."

  "If we don't prevent him
from going into shock, there won't be anything to argue about," she growled back. "Now, please. Let's see if he can raise his legs very slowly."

  "This is stupid, Gabby," Stan persisted. "That's how people end up with hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of law suits. This isn't necessary. The ambulance will be here soon."

  She ignored him and spoke to the biker's face, still hidden behind the dark visor. "Can you hear my voice?"

  "Yeah, yeah. It's ringin' in my ears." The response was feeble but audible. And to Gabby's astonishment it was female. She had missed the slight protrusion of the bust line and the narrow hips.

  "Good. Now just hold on. We've called for an ambulance. Don't move because you could injure your spinal cord. Can you feel my fingers squeezing your wrist?"

  "Yep."

  "That's good," she answered, aware of a siren-like sound in the distance. Another siren cawed from a different direction. Perhaps, she surmised, the police were also en route.

  "Is there enough room for the ambulance?" she asked a spectator.

  "There's a snarl of cars."

  "Well then, get moving and unsnarl them!" She snapped impatiently. "Work your way from the outside in."

  A policeman in heavy leather boots and a belt full of jangling paraphernalia arrived on the scene before the Rescue Squad, his mobile radio bristling with voices. Before tending to the injured biker, he surveyed the area and called into his radio for support. "Anybody call an ambulance here?" he asked in a throaty but confident voice.

  "Yes, sir." Stan Melkin answered. "Can't you hear sirens approaching?"

  The officer addressed Gabby. "Don't move him, Lady. He's breathing, isn't he?"

  "Yes, but it's a woman. I want to roll her over gently to lift her legs before she goes into shock."

  "You can't do that, Lady. Wait for the emergency people. They know what to do." He glanced through the crowd of people." Anybody see how this happened?"

  Dead silence. The short bursts of a siren announced that an ambulance was making progress through the congestion. "Okay now, everybody into your cars. I need people in the rear to back up and make a path. Move onto side streets, over lawns or anything, but just get off the road."