Rabbi Gabrielle's Defiance

by Roger Herst

  She smiled widely, half-nodding. "You said it, friend, not me. For the time being, keep my speculation to yourself."

  "Were I to reveal your thoughts, Rabbi Gabby, they'd send a paddy wagon here within the hour. Now how about dinner? I know you like Asian food. Chinese, Thai, Japanese, Korean? You name it."

  Asian food sounded appealing, but words slipped from her lips before being censured. "Anything but Korean, please."

  He squinted his confusion.

  She decided not to explain and said, "I can't go until I finish reading this report. Call the Fire Marshal's Office and find out where the Forensic Lab is located and how I can examine articles taken from the Morgenstern home. They must be in the public domain."

  "Playing detective again, are you?"

  "No. Just curious. There's a silly notion tickling my brain and I want to check it out."

  ***

  No communication from Kye fed Gabby's depression. His phones at Politicstoday were now disconnected as well as his mobile phone. She cycled a host of what-if scenarios through her mind, though the rational part of her brain told that the exercise was hopeless. Not one inclined toward fatalism, she found herself slipping into its grips, assuming full rather than partial blame for the rupture with Kye.

  Asa's return to Washington proved to be something of a relief, if for no other reason than she was no longer required to fulfill his duties. He slipped back into his previous routine, immediately inundated with calls and visits, letters, email, and daily meetings. Though Gabby was eager to hear about his adventures in California, they couldn't find free time until after Shabbat services, when they planned a walk around the Jefferson Monument at the Tidal Basin, to Gabby's mind, Washington's most picturesque spots.

  The spring afternoon was exceptionally warm. Hordes of tourists, most of whom had missed the famous cherry blossoms in early April, patrolled a narrow path encircling the Tidal Basin. The white dome of Jefferson's memorial reflected on the pond, dotted by colorful, two-man cycle boats. And inside, in the form of a statue far larger than life, stood Thomas Jefferson, peering imperiously at the nation he, with the help of other visionaries, founded.

  "So," she took Asa's arm as if they were strolling lovers. "I expected you to explode with joy. How many musicians are commissioned to write music for major orchestras? I don't reckon that happens very often. Did you fly down to Los Angeles?"

  "For two days. The L.A. Symphony put me up at the Bel Air Hotel and wined and dined me. People make fun of Hollywood, but people there take the business of entertainment seriously."

  "I hope they offered you oodles of money because you're worth every penny and then some additional shekels because you're also a damn nice fellow."

  He chuckled and curled his lips into a wry contortion. "Better than Ohav Shalom, if that's what you're thinking."

  "Take the money and run, friend. This is your opportunity to make a name for yourself. Thousands of people will hear your music."

  "You know I won't do that, at least not until you've returned from your sabbatical."

  "But this is a dream come true," she stopped walking and turned, forcing him to face her.

  "And what about your dream of running for Congress? Why does mine take priority over yours?"

  "Because I've haven't one tenth of the talent for politics you have for music. You can make your dream a reality. But scratch my skin and you won't find a politician. The truth is, I don't even like politics. For a couple of months, I caught Potomac fever and became delirious. From my frustrations, I saw a greener field. When President Talisman wrote me I momentarily believed not only that I could win, but that I was far more important than I am and that I had more to offer the public than I do. Eventually, I came down to earth for a good look. Talisman was only trying to further his own political interests. He would have written the same letter to just about any Democrat foolish enough to run against Toby Ryles. Your friend Gabby isn't very good at anything but being a rabbi."

  "I still must stick around until the Morgenstern trial is over. It's going to force me to spend a lot of time in Washington. If I can concentrate, I'll do some composing here."

  They resumed walking, sometimes dodging children who clustered beside the water to throw bread at mallards addicted to human table scraps.

  "What does Anina say about your success?"

  "All she can think about is me becoming successful in the movies."

  "When you leave, will she follow?" Gabby asked.

  "We haven't talked about that. Besides, I don't expect to be gone long."

  "You're hot now, Asa. Opportunities that are real now may evaporate in the future. As much as I would love you at Ohav Shalom, you've got to be practical. The board has never appreciated your skills. They've made you into the kapporah for our Morgenstern tragedy. As far as I'm concerned, you owe Ohav Shalom nothing. And as for me, I'll find a substitute. There are plenty of good rabbis to serve in the nation's capital. Go, Asa. Go, please. Reuben is my guru in matters of music and you know what he thinks about your work."

  "I won't leave you holding the bag."

  "I'll manage. I've got some pretty neat people to work with."

  "What's new with Kye? Anina faxed me the piece about you in The Post. I know people are talking about a relationship."

  "I haven't seen or talked with him in weeks. He's disappeared. He hasn't called, written, or emailed. It doesn't matter what people whisper behind my back. That's all history now."

  "You're fond of him, aren't you?"

  "Very."

  "Any chance of you two getting it together again."

  Her eyes turned cold and her lips parted only a sliver. "I would like that, but it's not the cards I hold in my hand. I can't find him and you can't have a relationship with a phantom, now can you?"

  To change the unpleasant subject, she asked, "Do you think Anina will go to California. There must be many opportunities for plastic surgeons there."

  "If you ask me, I'd say no."

  "Then she's a fool. Men like you don't come around often. Ask me, I'm the world's authority on such things. Only a foolish woman would let you slip through her fingers. If I were six or seven years younger, I'd be tempted to make a pass at you myself. I'd probably have to chase you around this pond to get you, but I'd give it one helluva try."

  "Thanks, Gabby. The truth is that were I six or seven years older, I'd probably be chasing you."

  ***

  Pastor Norman Woo, in denim jeans and a cotton sweater, rose to greet Gabby at the door to his study at the Korean First Baptist Church with a collegial handshake and a smile of extraordinary teeth. A well-groomed, handsome man in his early fifties, he squired her to an expansive wooden desk, neat as one would expect of a Fortune 500 CEO. The bookshelves behind appeared as orderly as its librarian, immaculately stacked according to book sizes not subjects, the smaller on top rows, the larger on lower. It stuck Gabby that what this order saved in space it probably lost in efficiency. She wondered how one would ever find a book not categorized by subject or author.

  Reverend Woo remembered her from the picnic for several reasons: she threw a wicked baseball and was the only female Kye Naah had ever brought to a church gathering. What he didn't share was that women of the sisterhood had long since ceased introducing Kye to eligible women, believing him to be a confirmed bachelor. Gabby's presence at the picnic kindled a bonfire of renewed speculation.

  Woo spoke in a guttural Korean accent, thought in idiomatically perfect English. During opening chatter he bemoaned his church's isolation. Koreans were by nature an insular people quite content to keep to themselves. But that, he acknowledged, was not the American way and they should adopt a more open attitude toward the culture around them. Besides, such insularity was costly. Their neighbors had much to teach, particularly Jews who are steeped in the Old Testament. When Woo retrieved from his bookcase a Korean translation of Bellum Judaicum, the Wars of the Jews, written by Josephus Flavius in the first century of the Commo
n Era, Gabby was impressed.

  "I've lost touch with Kye, Reverend," she finally turned their discussion from Josephus to the reason for her visit. "I know he's had business reverses and I'm worried about him. He doesn't respond to my email and his phones are disconnected. I drove over to the offices of Politicstoday in Prince George's County, which are now vacant. The logo is down, along with the neon sign on the side of the headquarters. There's a big FOR LEASE sign posted outside and the building is locked shut. Do you know how I might contact him?"

  Woo's eyebrows rose cautiously, a signal of curiosity. "We haven't seen him in church for over a month now. His friends came to me a few weeks ago with the same inquiry. We're also worried. Kye was close to us and it's very strange to leave without saying something. I can't claim we were the best of friends, but I think he respected me and I most certainly respected him. When a member of our church is in trouble, we like to help. Apparently, he didn't want what we have to offer."

  This was not what Gabby wanted to hear. She had racked her brains for a means of making contact with Kye and came up short. They shared no friends. She had reason to believe his associates at the website had scattered when Politicstoday ceased operations. There was Kye's lawyer, whose name Gabby had forgotten and, of course, the Bankruptcy Court in the District of Columbia. But Kye's pastor was a lot easier to approach.

  Conversation with Pastor Woo meandered from their joint disappointment to Josephus Flavius, also a favorite of Gabby. She told of an article she had written defending his controversial command at Jotophata during the Galilean campaign during the first Jewish rebellion against Rome in the year 67 of the Common Era. Woo read on Gabby's face her distress over Kye.

  As soon as he could, he steered the subject away from Josephus. "Rabbi, I'd be happy to make inquires. As I said, we're a private people. When Kye didn't contact us, we assumed he didn't want us to talk about him. Maybe he was humiliated about what happened to Politicstoday. But he had a group of friends. I could approach them and gently raise Kye's name. Perhaps he's in touch with someone."

  Gabby lifted eyes that had fallen to her lap and worked a grateful smile onto her cheeks. "Yes, I would appreciate that very much. I'm worried about him on many levels. He was very dedicated to his work and his fellow workers. In some ways, I bear responsibility for what's happened. This thing blew up so fast, we really didn't talk matters out. One day, everything was fine. The next, over… just over."

  Woo rose not only to take Gabby's hand in farewell, but to place a compassionate arm on her shoulder, suddenly looking not like a clerical colleague, but an uncle. "Rest assured, we're going to do whatever we can. And I'm delighted you've lit a fire under me. I've let things slide. Now I have a reason to be proactive."

  As she walked to her car in the parking lot, the sincerity of Reverend Woo's offer provided a glimmer of hope. She knew that if she kept pushing she'd eventually locate Kye. What worried her more was his frame of mind once she found him.

  ***

  Cantor Reuben Blass referred to Asa in the same category as George Gershwin and Aaron Coplin. This hyperbole set the stage for what was to come. By the time Asa's resignation letter reached Stan Melkin a week later and was accordingly distributed to members of the synagogue's governing board, no one was shocked, though that didn't change the harsh reaction. How dare Rabbi Folkman unilaterally resign when he had a contractual obligation to the congregation! And how selfish an act when Ohav Shalom was facing litigation for which he bore prime responsibility! Criticism spread rapidly beyond him. Stan Melkin came under fire for his managerial style, which had, in the eyes of some members, ineffectively disciplined the staff and encouraged rabbinical anarchy. Even more irritating, an ad-hoc committee wrote to the Board of Directors to terminate Gabby's contract if she attempted to challenge Toby Ryles in the up-coming congressional election.

  "The place is volcanic," Chuck Browner reported to Gabby when he confirmed a special meeting of the board to discuss Asa's resignation. "I've never seen so many factions. Recriminations patter on our tin roof like hailstones. Asa's bailing out at the right time."

  "The season of discontents," she sighed with an air of omniscience. "One irritation engenders another until there is nothing but confusion."

  "If I may be so bold, Rabbi Gabby, this is also the time to make your escape, though I wouldn't want to lose my job. Who needs this shit?"

  Her eyes fell over him with compassion. "Thanks, friend. I know you have my welfare at heart, but oddly, this is precisely not the time for me to jump ship. This congregation needs continuity more than ever."

  "They've treated you and Rabbi Folkman like you know what. You don't owe anybody anything."

  "I didn't select this profession for good treatment. The raw fact is they're not malicious people. Our interests collide. I won't find another congregation in the country where that doesn't happen. And over the long haul, they've been pretty damn good to me."

  "What about the sabbatical you're owed?"

  She paused, evaluating Chuck's political sagacity. Usually, he didn't miss a trick, but this time he had made a bad assumption. "If I don't run for Congress, a sabbatical isn't essential. With Asa going to California, there's no way I'm going to leave this pulpit empty. That's a given."

  "Why give up a chance to become Congresswoman?"

  "Because it isn't me, Chuck. You know that. Everybody does. Until recently, I believed my own propaganda. And however sick this political system is, Jews don't want me to oppose Toby Ryles. She's played the political game right and earned their loyalty. And just for your information, how do you think I might raise the kind of money it takes to win without Politicstoday?"

  "Have you heard from Dr. Naah?"

  "I've heard from him by not hearing from him, if you catch my drift."

  "Sorry, Rabbi. Bad luck comes in bundles."

  At lunchtime, she opened her study door to regard Chuck munching one of his brownbag sandwiches. When he lifted his chin to acknowledge her, he said, "Tuna. Want some? It's more than I feel like eating."

  "No thanks. I came to ask a favor. When you're finished lunch, I would like you to accompany me someplace. I'll drive. If I can't find a parking space, I might want you to wait in the car so bring something to read."

  He started to repackage his sandwich. "Where are we going?"

  "To the Fire Department's Forensic Laboratory. Fourth and G Streets, southeast. I spoke with Lieutenant Sampson Turner this morning and he told me everything taken from a fire is in the public domain so I have a right to inspect it on the premises. He gave me the name of another officer on duty this afternoon. Remember that hunch of mine? It's time for me to have a look-see."

  At one thirty, she drove with Chuck south along Wisconsin Avenue, eventually debouching into Rock Creek Park and Potomac Parkway, then across Independence Avenue skirting the National Mall. At Fourth Street, she headed along D to the Fire Department Laboratory. They were in luck and found a metered parking space two blocks away. For just such a windfall, she kept a stash of quarters in the dashboard ashtray.

  The Forensic Laboratory reception room buzzed with insurance clerks checking accident records and phoning their offices with the results while a cashier behind a glass partition collected fees for photocopied records and other official documents. On the third floor, a duty clerk in an olive-green smock presented Gabby and Chuck with multiple forms and wavers for signature, then sent them to be photographed for the mandatory identification badges. Once these formalities were completed, a female officer led into a cavernous vault encased in chicken wire with hundreds of uniformed-sized cardboard boxes on steel shelving from floor to ceiling. A code number on the Marshal's Report for the Morgenstern fire eventually matched the bin and carton numbers with two large boxes, each with an inventory list stapled to the outside. A faint odor of fire smoke imported in the storage boxes permeated an examining area equipped with steel tables.

  In the first of four Morgenstern containers, Gabby found Asa Folkman
's menorah, a bronze base supporting eight uniform candleholders for standard multicolored candles mass produced for Chanukah, with an overhanging bracket for the shamash – helping candle. It compared almost identically with the menorah in the photo of Asa's study that Gabby had brought along, though heat from the fire had evidentially melted part of the excess wax accumulating around the base of the candleholders. As expected, there was more wax under the shamesh and where new candles were introduced on all successive nights of the eight-night festival.

  A second carton produced the Morgenstern's silver Sabbath candlesticks, both tagged KITCHEN on deglow labels to indicate where found in the debris. Gabby handled them with great care so as not to remove a veneer of carbon along the beveled silver shank. Under a fluorescent fixture, she studied the first from several angles, hoping to discover evidence that it, rather than the menorah, might have started the fire. Untrained in forensics, she felt inadequate for the task. The second candlestick resembled the first, except that the lip designed to catch overflow wax at the base of candle was bent approximately forty degrees. Since it would be relatively easy to repair such damage this struck her as noteworthy. "Could this have resulted from falling off the kitchen table?" she asked Chuck. Before he could respond, she added, "I wish I brought a camera. Please see if someone on the staff here can take a picture of this."

  A few moments later, a young female clerk trailed Chuck to the table with an electronic camera and a receipt book to log the charges. Gabby directed her lens upon the bent lip – requesting a profile shot, then looking from top to bottom, and two additional pictures as close to the bent silver lip as possible. While the photographer was there, she ordered pictures of the menorah and the undamaged Shabbat candlestick. Before replacing the damaged candlestick into the original storage carton, Gabby adjusted her reading glasses on her nose and brought it close to her eyes for a final examination. "Yes… yes… yes," she muttered without revealing her thoughts.

  A department employee arrived to ensure that examined articles were returned to their boxes and the boxes to their original positions on the steel shelving.