Rabbi Gabrielle Commits a Felony

by Roger Herst

  He snapped at her, "Gabby I told you we should lock the sanctuary at all times except during services."

  "We've been through this train station before, Harold. Yes, we've been violated. Yes, they tied me up all night. But we'll lock our people out of their sanctuary over my dead body. I refuse to capitulate to thugs. I can't argue with you now. Please, just come as soon as possible."

  "The silver breastplates and crowns are locked away in the vault. I doubt common thieves would have the wherewithal or the inclination to break in."

  "I'm worried about the Torah scrolls. I'm going to check."

  "Don't do that. Wait until the police arrive! Nothing can be gained by rushing there. I'm on my way as soon as I can get my pants on."

  "The Torahs are priceless. Everything else here can be replaced."

  "Don't exaggerate. I'm on somebody's mailing list and am offered Torahs at bargain prices every month."

  "Okay, but we can't duplicate our Holocaust scroll. The intruders seemed to have a purpose. Their movements felt choreographed."

  "Do you feel strong enough to report to Miles Boronsky. He should be informed immediately."

  "You do it, please. I've got my hands full. Kye's coming over and the police are on their way."

  Dashing to the sanctuary through a series of dark hallways, Gabby had a gnawing premonition that her nightmare was only beginning. If the intruders damaged the Temple, there would be hell to pay for her insistence that the sanctuary remained, like Catholic churches, open to the public. She never wanted Ohav Shalom to become a fortress, locked and inaccessible to its members, particularly the sanctuary where folks might come to pray, meditate, dream or just doze in God's presence. It was particularly satisfying to invite her parishioners to open the Ark, Aron-ha-Koddish, and remove the Torah scrolls containing the Five Books of Moses. These were, after all, their Torahs. Why, she argued, commit Judaism's holiest books to a tomb entered only by rabbinical high priests? This was particularly true when training Bar and Bat Mitzvah boys and girls. Whenever possible, she promoted bonding with Judaism's past by encouraging them to closely examine the sacred words and touch the Torah parchment, particularly the Holocaust scroll. All that, she had an acute prescience was about to change.

  Inside the cavernous sanctuary, early morning sunlight had just begun to filter through multi-colored stained glass panels on the eastern wall. She knew the location of the electric switches for the massive overhead chandeliers, but natural light was sufficient. She found herself racing down a side aisle, then scampering up half-dozen shallow stairs to the Ark where, for a brief instant, she paused to scan the Hebrew written above – Dah, lefnei Atah Omed, Know Before Whom You Stand – before tugging at the heavy bronze doors inscribed in silver with ten Hebrew letters corresponding to the Ten Commandments.

  Ohav Shalom owned seven Torahs, each acquired at a different period of the synagogue's growth. On occasion, the Board of Directors lent one or two to smaller, less affluent congregations, but on principle had never sold or retired any. The current inventory was five, each dressed in elaborate white silk covers decorated with golden filigree letters and assorted ornamentation. On first glance, it looked to Gabby as though the intruders had ignored them altogether. Her second looks was not as satisfying. Her spirits plummeted when she noticed at the top of one cover there were no wooden handles protruding through holes. Like probing for a sock lost under bed sheets, her fingers rummaged for the hidden scroll but found nothing. The cover was there, but the Sefer Torah was gone! She lifted the limp cloth to discover a sheet of heavy stationery, handed lettered in measured block script, emulating in English Hebrew calligraphy.

  Yet will I leave seven thousand in Israel

  Those knees have not bowed down to Baal

  And whose mouths have not kissed Him.

  It sounded to her like a verse from the Prophetic Books but nothing she immediately recognized. To identify the quotation would not be difficult, though at the moment this was far from her mind. The missing scroll was no ordinary Torah, but cherished detritus of World War II. Once stolen by Nazi agents for future display in Hitler's proposed Museum of an Extinct People, it had survived the war in a dank warehouse on the outskirts of Offenbach, Germany. Seven years after the Third Reich surrendered, the new Communist government in Prague took possession of many scrolls plundered by the Nazis and sold fifty for hard cash to Jewish philanthropists from London. Half of these repossessed Torahs were sent to America and distributed to young congregations so that Jewish children might read what Adolph Hitler had promised no Jews would ever read again. For a long while, Gabby stared at the silk cover, both disgusted and perplexed, struck by the irony. This was the second time this Ohav Shalom scroll had been illegally confiscated – first by the Nazis during the War and now by common thieves! Had she underestimated the currency of modern anti-Semitism? Were Neo-Nazis still eager to prey upon the treasures of Jewish memory? Or could this be a Jewish crime?

  From the sanctuary, she made her way back to her study, chastising her blindness. Her 35-year-old secretary, Chuck Browner, often accused her of being overly generous in her appraisal of others. According to him, she painted scoundrels in angel's dress, failing to recognize the sinister side of human nature. She was angry enough to believe he was right.

  At her desk, she dialed Chuck's apartment in Silver Spring, Maryland. Like Harold, he was a late riser, but if required was prepared to work into the wee hours of the night, causing her to refer to him as "her nocturnal lemur." Over the years, she had nursed him through a string of gay lovers, most of whom provided little long-term satisfaction and much short-term Angst. Chuck reciprocated with steadfast loyalty.

  While she continuously received abundant accolades, his role behind the scenes in making her successful often went unacknowledged. By and large, the membership wanted him to remain in the shadows of congregational life and were not interested in his contributions. A secretary was expected to be an unnoticed functionary not a star. He understood this fact better than Gabby and requested she refrain from praising him in public. Her efforts with the congregation's budget committee to see that he received above-average wages were one of the few secrets she kept from him.

  "What's wrong, Rabbi Gabby?" he asked before she had a chance to tell him.

  "How did you know something is wrong?"

  "Your voice. There's a tone that tells me you're troubled. So let's have it."

  "Thieves broke into Ohav last night and tied me up, then stole our Holocaust Torah."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Stiff as hell for being bound into a chair for almost nine hours until Doc rescued me."

  "Are you trembling?" "How'd you know that?" she shot back, her voice conveying both irritation and impatience.

  "You always tremble when frightened. I'll stop at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way to the 'gog. You need something sweet and gooey to make you feel better. Are the police there?"

  She usually avoided the fat and sugar of donuts, but Chuck's suggestion sounded appealing. "I'm waiting for them now," she said. "Harold's calling Miles Boronsky. Members of the Board will want to report to the membership. It won't be long before the press sniffs out a story. I've been trying to keep the synagogue out of the media but here we go again!"

  "You attract it like greenbacks attract the Mafia. So long as you're rabbi at Ohav Shalom the press will find you. That's a given. Don't fight publicity, Rabbi Gabby. You're a celebrity in this town and there's no publicity bad for one's career. I'm dressing right now. See you as soon as possible."

  Fourteen minutes later, patrolling police officers entered Ohav Shalom. Not far on their heels came a squad of detectives. Like gulls ravaging a school of herring, they photographed everything suspicious and much that wasn't. Forensic specialists treated doorknobs and tabletops for fingerprints. An FBI hate crimes unit arrived at nine o'clock to question synagogue employees. As soon as junior reporters monitoring police radio frequencies understood this was more than routine b
urglary, television transmission vehicles showed up in the synagogue parking lot. Senior reporters phoned ahead for appointments to interview Gabby. Uninvited, Jewish communal leaders and rabbis arrived to evaluate for themselves.

  During several interviews, Kye clung possessively to Gabby, trying to be useful. When she introduced him as her husband, eyes would glaze over in confusion. A Korean American was not what they had expected for the husband of a rabbi and nobody was interested to hear the long story of how he had converted to Judaism. Nor had they the patience to tell it. Together, they were looking for an opportunity to steal away and be alone long enough to conceive a baby. But it became increasing clear that Gabby could not tear herself from Jewish communal leaders and city councilmen who had come to express their dismay. Kye reluctantly left to attend urgent matters at the Herndon headquarters of his newest business venture, Images.com.

  By eleven o'clock, Gabby began to regard this cavalcade of visitors as an unnecessary intrusion into the synagogue's privacy.

  President of Ohav Shalom, Miles Boronsky, had quite a different idea. He told her by phone, "I've talked to several trustees who want to leave everything exactly as it is so that all our members can see for themselves and draw their own conclusions. Clare Reubenfeld called with results from a telephone poll she's taken with the Religious School Committee and several senior teachers. They want kids in our school to see this with their own eyes, especially the message the thieves left behind."

  "Isn't that like a prize fighter displaying his wounds?" Gabby inquired, not at all certain she liked what she sensed was coming. "Do you think it's necessary to display our shame? Do the thieves need such publicity?"

  "We've never had the opportunity to teach our kids about anti-Semitism first hand," he answered.

  She disagreed with many Jews who sought public sympathy by the exhibition of Jewish suffering. Victimization never struck a psychological chord in her, as she knew it did in many of the post-Holocaust generation. Why her people needed to establish museums to memorialize their losses and defeats confused her. Given her druthers, she would replace the past cavalcade of pogroms, banishments, and massacres with a parade of Judaism's achievements.

  "I can't imagine what it must have felt like being tied up like that," Miles Boronsky missed or purposely ignored Gabby's remarks. "It must have been horrible, absolutely horrible. I'm certain the Torah will show up. Somebody will recognize it."

  "I'm not so sure about that, Miles," Gabby said, feeling the last residue of strength draining from her body. "There are thousands of prewar Torahs in circulation. Word for word, they're identical. You'd have to be a pretty savvy scribe to notice our particular scroll."

  "The most important thing is you're all right, Rabbi. And by the way, I'm convening an emergency meeting at the synagogue at one o'clock. Harold will provide sandwiches. I hope you can make it because we'll want your input. We'll have to make a statement to the press."

  "I'm getting many calls of sympathy from Christian colleagues. One asked to bring his confirmation class to see for themselves and to pray in our sanctuary."

  "Good. There was a time when nobody would have cared about our misery."

  Ten minutes later, Rabbi Cici Landow, Gabby's Associate Rabbi at Ohav Shalom, came to pay her respects, carting on her hip her two-year-old, Joshua, his nose running and his eyes glassy. When he was healthy Gabby found Josh an appealing child. But when ill, most of that appeal vanished. She took a dim view of Cici bringing her children to the shul when performing rabbinical duties.

  They spoke about Gabby's ordeal until Cici picked up Gabby's disapproval and said, "Sorry, Josh has had a bad cold for three days now and I hate to leave him with someone when he feels like this. It just isn't fair."

  "Where's his father? Can't Abner help once in a while?" Gabby aired her frustration with Cici's Argentine-born husband who she knew barely lifted a hand to help raise his two children.

  "In Brazil on business," Cici replied sharply, always defensive when that subject came up and it frequently did. "I know you don't like me bringing my kids to work, but sometimes it's inevitable. Every working mother will tell you that."

  Gabby thought momentarily about holding back, but didn't. "You're right, Cici. I'm not a fan of parenting on the job, particularly for professional women. It sends the wrong message. People just won't take you seriously as a rabbi if you're seen distracted by mothering. When was the last time you saw a doctor put his or her child in the waiting room with a coloring book? Or a lawyer's kid playing on the office carpet? Let Abner take Josh once in a while."

  "I'm really sorry you don't see the problem, Gabby. I would have thought that you'd be more sympathetic."

  "I'm trying to be, but I'm exhausted. Maybe things will look different when this nightmare's past. In the meantime, I need you to help keep this place running while we're under siege. Chuck has a list of people I'd like you to call today."

  Cici's response reeked with hesitation. "My schedule is already full. I'll have to check my appointment book and get back to Chuck."

  As Cici was about to leave, Gabby stood behind her desk and gestured with her palms. Gone from her voice was the frustration she had felt earlier. "Cici, please imagine sitting in an airplane all night with two oversized people boxing you into the middle seat. Now think of being bound up and unable to move or get to a rest room. Electricity goes out in the plane's cabin and you can't talk to anybody. That's the way I've been all night. I'm under water here and am asking for your help. That's what you signed up for and that's what I expect of you."

  "I'll do what I can, but you must give me time to readjust my schedule."

  When tired, Gabby's sarcasm erupted. "I once had a dentist who was in the process of retiring and saw his patients only on Wednesdays and Thursdays. When you wanted him to fix a problem it took months for an appointment because all his Wednesdays and Thursdays were filled."

  "What is that supposed to mean?" Cici huffed near the door.

  "The metaphor is clear to me. I suggest you think about it."

  ***

  After living in Washington for 15 years, Gabby understood how an event such as this was bound to escalate and take on its own history. While she personally wished it would just disappear, she knew that was unrealistic. Assaulting a clergywoman and stealing a Torah struck a sensitive communal nerve. Jews would not be satisfied until the matter was thoroughly aired and publicly recognized. Christians would not be satisfied until they had expressed their horror and pledged to everything possible to bring the culprits to justice. Throughout the long afternoon, Gabby kept glancing at her watch and thinking of her rendezvous with Kye.

  By day's end, she was emotionally drained. Harold Farb had his marching orders to lock each office, classroom and conference room door. In addition, he was delegated to beef up the building's night security. She anticipated the zeal with which he would throw himself into an assignment like this.

  When she drove into the driveway of her home at 5:14 p.m, Kye was not home. While waiting for him, she used the time for a long-awaited shower, then sat down on the living room sofa in her bathrobe. No candles and no schmaltzy instrumental music for atmosphere. In her dating days, she might have utilized them to create a romantic climate. But since she and Kye had arranged to have sex in advance, such props seemed inappropriate. Besides, what she was expecting to accomplish had far more to do with reproductive biology than romance.

  For Gabby, sitting idly, without a book on her lap or a legal pad for scribbling sermon outlines, was most unusual. But this afternoon, she felt no compulsion to fill these minutes with productive work. Kye's tardiness concerned her. She asked herself repeatedly what he had to do at the office that could be more important than conceiving a child? Just because she couldn't tear herself away from the synagogue for a couple of additional hours was no reason for him to be late. As the minutes passed, her impatience brewed into frustration.

  His phone call arrived a few minutes before seven. No, he wa
sn't in his car en route home, caught in traffic on the Capital Beltway. No, he wasn't unexpectedly delayed at Images.com. And no, he wasn't in a hospital room waiting treatment for an emergency. He was on an airplane over Pennsylvania, claiming through the onboard telephone, that an unforeseen mishap commanded his immediate attention in the Manhattan office of a merging partner. To Gabby, this was not only lame but infuriating. There was always an emergency at Images! And often a reason why he couldn't address family matters.

  She admired his dedication and understood that success in electronic commerce required him to labor at odd hours. Like her occupation, the eight-hour workday had become an historic fiction. Evenings and weekend were just as productive as weekdays, and if Kye wasn't prepared to work hard, his young competitors would and, as he like to say, "they'll eat me for lunch." Her own job required that she accommodate to her congregants when they wanted her services, not when it was convenient to provide them. And since the merger of Kye's integrated political web site with two California competitors, he had almost doubled his workweek. The integration of different corporate cultures was particularly delicate, to say little about the daunting challenge of mixing three different software codes, developed at different times and by different programmers.

  Still, this was beginning of her menstruation and if she and Kye were to conceive this month, the window was narrow. Kye's business trips usually took three or four days and to wait for his return might be too late.

  "Why not fly up after your Shabbat services?" he asked on the airline phone. "I'll meet you at La Guardia. We can go directly to my hotel."

  Her response was peppered with recrimination. "Because Ohav Shalom has just been burglarized and needs rabbinical leadership. As usual, Cici has a dozen excuses why she can't offer much help. The congregation is outraged. And unlike you, I can't just pick up and leave town on the spur of the moment."

  "I promise we'll make love the moment I come home."