The Old Religion

by David Mamet

  by the same author

  FICTION:

  WILSON: A CONSIDERATION OF THE SOURCES

  THE VILLAGE

  NON-FICTION:

  THREE USES OF THE KNIFE

  JAFSIE AND JOHN HENRY

  TRUE AND FALSE

  MAKE-BELIEVE TOWN

  THE CABIN

  ON DIRECTING FILM

  WRITING IN RESTAURANTS

  POETRY:

  THE CHINAMAN

  THE HERO PONY

  PLAYS:

  BOSTON MARRIAGE

  THE CRYPTOGRAM

  THE OLD NEIGHBORHOOD

  OLEANNA

  NO ONE WILL BE IMMUNE

  GOLDBERG STREET

  GLENGARRY GLEN ROSS

  AMERICAN BUFFALO

  A LIFE IN THE THEATRE

  SPEED-THE-PLOW

  THE WOODS, LAKEBOAT, EDMOND

  SEXUAL PERVERSITY IN CHICAGO and THE DUCK VARIATIONS

  SCREEN PLAYS:

  STATE AND MAIN

  THE SPANISH PRISONER and THE WINSLOW BOY

  HOMICIDE

  HOUSE OF GAMES

  WE’RE NO ANGELS

  Copyright

  This edition first published in paperback in the United States in 2002 by

  The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.

  Woodstock & New York

  WOODSTOCK:

  One Overlook Drive

  Woodstock, NY 12498

  www.overlookpress.com

  [for individual orders, bulk and special sales, contact our Woodstock office]

  NEW YORK:

  141 Wooster Street

  New York, NY 10012

  Copyright © 1997 by David Mamet

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  ISBN 978-1-59020-966-0

  This book is dedicated to

  Rabbi Larry Kushner

  Contents

  by the same author

  Copyright

  Preparing for the trip to Morris’s house

  Morris tells a story about Southern Jews

  The Seder plate

  Discussion of the Mortara case

  Thoughts about advertising. “Wells Fargo Never Forgets”

  At the lake. Morris does card tricks

  The backyard at night

  The heavy woolen jacket

  The Confederate flag

  The new couch

  That Saturday

  The Coffee Corner

  The watch

  The factory

  The paper clip

  The power of advertising

  The end of the day

  The trial

  Memory

  Waiting for his attorney

  The prosecutor

  Jim

  The trial progresses

  Testimony

  His wife

  Photographs

  Examination

  The end of the trial

  Taken to prison

  The tea

  The work clothes

  The food

  His books

  The Rabbi

  A skill

  The Hebrew language

  Shalat

  A different religion

  Americus

  Visiting day

  Songs

  The dot

  Punishment

  Gematria

  Palestine

  His vision

  The library

  The hospital

  The scar

  The ride

  Acknowledgments

  A crucible for silver, a furnace for gold,

  and the Lord tries hearts.

  —Proverbs 17:3

  In 1913 a young factory girl was killed in Atlanta, Georgia. Her name was Mary Phagan, and she worked at the National Pencil Factory. The factory manager was Leo Frank. He was a New York Jew. Frank was accused of the crime and brought to trial.

  Preparing for the trip

  to Morris’s house

  The newspaper lined a bandbox. He opened he bandbox to get a fresh shirt collar. He wondered, as he often did, at the appearance of the newspaper. It had been glued into he sides and bottom of the box, and the date showed April 10, 1868. But the newsprint had not yellowed. “Obviously the glue is a preservative,” he thought.

  “We might think what there is in the glue to preserve the clarity, and, so, arrive at a new process, or, at a new application of an existing operation to lengthen the life of newsprint.” He smiled.

  “But is not longevity in opposition to its very nature, which is temporareity? And if we had begun with newsprint which resisted time, would it not be an advancement if, by extraction of the preservative glue, the cost of difficulty of manufacture could decrease? If some man,” he thought, “recognized one day it was not necessary for the print to retain clarity beyond the one day, and, so doing, reformed the industry …?

  “Yes,” he thought. “Yes. You could take it either the one way or the other. And either would be as astounding.”

  The newsprint advertised, along the fold where the box’s sides and bottom met, a meeting to petition Isabella, the queen of Spain, for the release of Edgardo Mortara.

  “Restore the Child to its Rightful Parents …,” the print read. It was a sheet of the Brooklyn Eagle, and had been glued into the box by someone in his wife’s family, back in those days.

  Edgardo Mortara was a Jewish child. He’d fallen ill and was believed near death.

  One day, in his parents’ absence, his Catholic nurse took him from the house and had him baptized, to save his soul. The child was kidnapped by the state—taken from his parents’ home. No diplomatic or religious pressure was sufficient to induce the government of Spain or the Catholic church to give the child back.

  Frank looked down at the clipping and thought of the discussions, the endless and not unenjoyable discussions, he and his fellow Jews had had about the outrage.

  The bandbox held his collars and, in a soft morocco purse, his collar studs. He fitted the collar into his clean shirt and stepped to the mirror to tie his tie.

  “Yes, you look nice,” his wife said.

  He nodded, and they continued to prepare for the ritual trip to Morris’s house.

  Morris tells a story about

  Southern Jews

  Morris spoke: “… you see, with the placards of the Klan and the announcements—do you see, they put it in the local paper: ‘Jews and Catholics. You are not required. Leave now or be eliminated.”

  “Well, in Belton, Renston, that area, now, they’re dragging people from their homes. Some priest …” He coughed.

  He leaned forward and took a sip of the cordial.

  “D’you get these glasses from?” he said.

  “Aunt Claire,’ Frank said.

  “Gave ’em to you …?”

  “Certainly did.”

  He admired the small, etched glass, and turned it to the light, and raised it to examine the base.

  “Bavaria,” he read. He sighed and leaned back into the davenport, resting his left arm out along its high wooden frame.

  “… Bavaria,” he said, softly, to himself, content that it meant nothing, content to be the head of the family, to be a man, happy with his friends, relaxed and full of a good dinner, and to be serious in the way people are when the subject is arguably more personal than gossip but devoid of any real threat—who are entertained by th
ose best of entertainments, which go by the name of serious business.

  “I don’t begrudge him,” Frank thought. “He is, upon balance, fair, and no more pompous than I would be in his situation—than I, in all probability, am now.

  “If we prize substance, then he, as a substantial man, is worthy of admiration.

  “And, by God, given time, and with a little help, I might accomplish as much as he.”

  “The Ku Klux Klan,” Morris began again.

  “… But, finally, who does he think he is?” Frank thought.

  “The Ku Klux Klan. Which of us is immune?” Morris said.

  “For all the world like bugbear stories around a campfire,” Frank thought.

  “And don’t we sit here with our eyes wide like ten-year-old children—thrilled to be frightened?”

  Mayra came back into the room, and behind her, Frank saw the colored maid, who, it was obvious, had just been receiving some timely instructions from her.

  Mayra stood in the doorway and looked out on her husband as he continued. She looked down over her family, so still, listening to Morris go on.

  She settled herself into the chair by the door. Slowly, in the rhythm of his speech, sinking down. Her husband, his eyes in a sweep of the assemblage, caught her eye and nodded, as if to a prized lieutenant.

  “… and so Weiss …,” he said.

  One of the children ran through the hall on some errand, and her mother reached out of the parlor and drew her in and whispered to her.

  “… stayed at his home. Three days. And waited the ax blow.”

  One of the men nodded, and expelled the cigar smoke.

  “… in all anxiety. His store. His home.”

  “His savings …,” one cousin said.

  “Well, exactly,” Morris said. “Exactly,” granting the man’s intrusion grandly.

  “His wife and family. Afraid to venture to the store. The store shuttered. The help … I don’t know if the household help came in, those days. They did not say. I do know they were bound to the house. The family. And whomever was there.

  “What fantasies,” he said, as he took up the main theme again, “must not have formed in his mind? Of flight … of opposition … What was he to do? I don’t believe he even had a shotgun in the house. In fact, I’m sure he didn’t.”

  The men in the room nodded.

  “Of flight, then? Abandoning everything? And how to flee? If the Klan ruled the roads? And could they go cross-country? Now. What did that leave?”

  “The railroad,” a young boy suggested.

  The adults looked at him.

  “No, No. That’s right,” Morris said. “That left the railroad. And they packed those few things they thought they could carry without attracting undue attention—as casual travelers might carry. And they planned to walk out, on Saturday evening, as if for a stroll, do you see, to the depot. Timing their walk to coincide with the departure—mind you, not the arrival, but the departure—of the nine-eighteen to Corinth.

  “For they would not want to appear and to board the train, only to have the Klan board after them, and drag them from it. How terrible that would be—so close to freedom …”

  He looked down at the cordial glass on the table before him. He reached forward and pushed it gently, by the base, so gently forward three inches.

  “They took a baby carriage,” he said. “Scheming to save those few things it would hold. A wicker baby carriage filled with the silver, this photograph or that, I don’t know, papers …

  “And, at the time they set off …

  “All over the town: posters. ‘The Knights of the Ku Klux Klan vow death upon the Scourge of Mankind, the Catholic and the Jew. And will eliminate them from our Midst, and stand, like the fiery ever-turning Sword …’”

  “Well, I think that the State Militia should have come,” a young cousin said. “And yes, and yes, ‘Who is the State Militia,’ but it seems to me …”

  “It seems to you what?” Morris said. “It seems to you what? What does it seem to you?” He smiled.

  “What happened to them?” one of the women said, and the group rustled and settled themselves again toward Morris.

  “Well, I’m going to tell you,” he said. “They set out, walking down to the depot. Thinking at any moment to receive a bullet in the head, a rifle butt to the face, a shout which said, ‘There are the Jews!’

  “To be dragged into an alley; into the town square. And they walked on. Past the store. They glanced at it, ‘Weiss’s Dry Goods.’

  “The store they had built from nothing: his father a peddler, a pack on his back.

  “And now Weiss. A pillar of the town. Who has a cause? A donation required, a …”

  The men nodded. Businessmen.

  “… a gift of … a bolt of cloth. The uniforms …”

  “That’s right,” one of the cousins said.

  “… for the ball teams. For the band. Community work, call it what you will. Who do they come to? A part of the town for the years, fifty years, that they had been there. ‘Weiss. Dry Goods.’ And here is the town. Risen against them, and one shout for blood, and their bodies swinging in the wind. As they walked past the store.

  “And you can imagine his bitterness—to pass the store, knowing at any moment and inevitably it will be broken into, plundered. Burnt, no doubt. A shell. And what were two generations of his family’s life?

  “They heard the whistle of the train, come into the town. As they walked on now.

  “They walked on. They crossed the square. There was the Klan, down the Main Street. There was a rally, and they’d thrown up a small platform, and there they were, in the Robes of the Inquisition were up there, haranguing the crowd. Thirty, fifty men now, in their white robes, and the crowd of the townspeople.

  “Well. They are committed. And they proceed to the train. What was that out of the side of his eye? Does Weiss see one of the Klansmen turn and spy him? Yes. No. What?

  “On they walk. Do you see the pathetic procession? Man and wife. And three children, and a baby carriage, in which is all they have salvaged of their life.

  “There is the depot. And there is the train. And people boarding. And there is the conductor, that’s right, checking his watch. Looks up the line, looks back; and is about to wave the brakeman to pull out. As the family comes up, comes up to the train, hurrying now: ‘Get on board.’ Weiss has his family board—he will go last, taking the baby carriage, and can still hear, do you see, the speaker and the crowd but one street over. ‘Cleanse our Land in Blood. … Death to the vermin … Death to those who bring death. … Death to the Jews. …’

  “About to board the train. ‘Praise God I have gotten my family away from this.’

  “When there is a hand on his shoulder. And he turns to see three of the hooded men.”

  The colored girl was coming in with a new pot of coffee. Mayra, seated near the kitchen, put her hand out to stay her.

  “… And Weiss turned to see the three men.”

  “‘Where are you going?’ the one says.

  “Can he make his voice out? Does Weiss recognize him? Does he care? Does it matter at this point? Some townsman. A customer, certainly. At this point does it matter?

  “‘Where are you going?’ And the second man, who held a torch, passed the torch to the third and motions up at the conductor, and points up at Weiss’s family, who are aboard the train, and motions the conductor to remove them from the train. And he does.

  “The train starts to leave. Starts to pull out. The conductor, looking back, shakes his head and mounts the train.

  “Weiss and his family standing on the empty platform. The train pulling out.

  “‘Where did you think you’re going?’

  “‘Sir,’ Weiss says. ‘Sir … the signs said that the Jews … the Jews were to leave the town. …’

  “The man came forward and stood inches from him. ‘Lord, Mr. Weiss,’ he said, ‘not you. You’re our Jew. …’”

  The roo
m erupted in laughter. The one cousin barked. Frank’s wife slapped her thighs and looked at her sister Mayra, who was already removing her handkerchief and screwing up her face for tears. Frank shook his head and chuckled. Morris looked at him.

  “… our Jew,” Morris said, and shook his head, and nodded to the girl in the kitchen to say, “Yes. Now.” And she came forward with the Passover tray.

  The Seder plate

  There was the fellow with the gun—an old matchlock, or wheel lock, misdrawn, for what would the Jews know about guns: nothing but to look away.

  Nonetheless, there he was, pictured on the plate, around him, in Hebrew, the words Matzoh, Maror, Karpas, the ritual foods of the Passover seder, and, by each word, a small depression in the plate. And in the center, once again, the chap, as he thought of him, holding his rifle.

  “What a medieval scene,” he thought, “Wouldn’t one expect a man in that attire to hold a crossbow …?” For the chap wore a jerkin and what seemed to be a conical fur hat. He was caught in a resolute, misdrawn attempt to depict stealth, and there, beyond him, looking back, was the rabbit.

  “Even I,” Frank said to the man from New York, “even I, in my ignorance and sloth, know that it cannot be ‘kosher’ for a Jew to hunt.”

  He pronounced the word “kosher” gingerly, as if to say, I don’t disclaim that I have heard it, but I do not wish to say it freely, as to arrogate it to myself on the mere precedent of blood.

  I don’t mean to disclaim it, but neither do I, for good or ill, wish to suggest a greater than accidental liaison between myself and that tradition.

  “This is a very rare piece, I believe,” the other man said, “and I’ll explain it to you. You are most correct to state it is non-kosher—for we are enjoined against the shedding of blood other than quickly, painlessly, with respect, and by a man trained ritually and practically to ensure his competence, if I may. So, you are correct. That hunting is not kosher?”

  “Nor the hare,” Morris said.

  “The hare, no,” the man from New York said, “although the rabbit is.”

  “What is the difference,” Frank said, “between the rabbit and the hare?”

  The man from New York began his response, and Frank thought, “I hate myself. Who am I trying to impress, or what accomplish, by that ‘Jewish’ flight of interrogation? God forgive me. No. And what do I care …?”