Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home

by Harry Kemelman

  Sunday The Rabbi Stayed Home

  Harry Kemelman

  Copyright

  Sunday The Rabbi Stayed Home

  Copyright © 1969, 2002 Ann Kemelman

  Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2009 by RosettaBooks, LLC

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  First electronic edition published 2009 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

  ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795306693

  To my children—

  Ruth and George,

  Arthur, Diane and Stanley

  Contents

  The Creation of Rabbi Small

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  THE CREATION OF RABBI SMALL

  A Special Foreword by Harry Kemelman

  I was born and grew up in a Jewish neighborhood in Boston. We moved several times, but always to a Jewish neighborhood, that is, one which had enough Jews to support a Jewish butcher shop and a Jewish grocery where you could buy herring and hard-crusted rye bread rather than the wax-wrapped loaf advertised as “untouched by human hand” (understandably) that was sold in the chain stores. These had to be within walking distance of one’s home. Few people had cars in those days, and even those were stored in a garage for the winter since streets were not plowed, only sanded. Any area that could support these two was also able to support a shul or a synagogue.

  I stayed out of school for every Jewish holiday, accompanying my father to the synagogue, mumbling the required passages as fast as I could but never as fast as my father. He would recite the Amidah and sit down before I was halfway through, even though I skipped a lot. During the High Holidays, when the synagogue was jammed, I would say I was going up to the balcony to see my mother, and then skip out and play with the other youngsters, and later when I was a teenager, stand around and flirt with the girls.

  Although everyone in the congregation recited the passages in Hebrew, only a few knew the meaning of the words they were saying.

  We did not pray, at least not in the sense of asking or beseeching. We davened, which consisted of reciting blessings expressing our gratitude, reading passages from the Bible and the Psalms. What petitionary prayers there were, were for the land of Israel and for the Jewish nation as a whole. It is perhaps simplistic, but nevertheless indicative, that our equivalent of “Give us this day our daily bread” is “Blessed art thou, O Lord, for bringing forth bread from the earth.”

  Fifty years ago, I moved to the Yankee town that I have called Barnard’s Crossing in my books, where the few Jews in the area had decided to establish a synagogue. Of necessity, since there were so few of us, it was set up as a Conservative synagogue so that the few older members who were likely to be Orthodox on the one hand and the Reform on the other, would not feel the service too strange. In point of fact, most of them knew little or nothing of their religion. They were second and third generation Americans; their parents had received little from their immigrant parents and passed on even less to their children. Only one or two of the older Orthodox members kept kosher homes.

  They knew about religion in general from their reading or from the movies they had seen, but little or nothing of the tenets of Judaism. Typical was the reaction of the young lawyer who had asked the rabbi they had engaged to bless the Cadillac he had just bought. He was surprised and hurt when the rabbi refused and said he did not bless things. The friends in the synagogue whom he told of the rabbi’s refusal felt much the same way.

  I was fascinated by the disaccord between the thinking of the rabbi and that of the congregation, and the problems it gave rise to. So I wrote a book about it. My editor, Arthur Fields, thought the book too low-keyed and suggested jokingly that I could brighten it up by introducing some of the exciting elements in the detective stories that I had written. As I passed by the large parking lot of our synagogue it occurred to me that it was an excellent place to hide a body. And as a rabbi is one who is learned in the law and whose basic function is to sit as a judge in cases brought before him, it seemed to me that he was the ideal character to act as an amateur detective by searching out the truth. Thus was born Rabbi David Small.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  Now, that’s what I call praying, Rabbi,” said Harvey Andelman. “We finished five minutes”–a glance at his watch–“no, seven minutes ahead of schedule.”

  The rabbi, Rabbi David Small, smiled as he continued to roll up his phylacteries. He was young, in his midthirties; although in good health, he was pale and thin and carried his head slightly forward, as though peering near-sightedly at a book. He had indeed gone through the service at breakneck speed and felt a little sheepish about it. “You see, I’m going on a trip–”

  “Sure, and you want to make an early start–naturally.” It seemed perfectly reasonable to Andelman, who had a market in Salem and was always trying to speed up the morning prayers so that he could get to his place of business in good time. He was in torment on those days when they had to wait around to secure the ten men needed for the minyan; and as soon as he spotted the tenth man, he would wave him on as he might a runner nearing the tape, calling, “C’mon, c’mon, let’s get going.” But now, luxuriating in his unexpected five, no, seven minutes of grace, he waited for the rabbi to put away his phylacteries and prayer shawl. “When Wasserman leads, or the cantor, you’d think it was Yom Kippur, that they got all day. And come to think of it, I guess they have. But the rest of us, we got jobs and businesses to go to. Well, be seeing you, Rabbi,” he said, loping off to his car.

  Because he felt guilty about having hurried the prayers, Rabbi Small slowed down his pace to a stroll as he went along the corridor that led to his study. For the first time in a long while he noted the bare white cinder-block outer wall divided halfway up to no
purpose by a strip of black plastic; the similarly divided yellow-glazed brick inner wall; the rubber tile floor, gleaming from a recent waxing, on which only the circled imprint of the floor polisher gave some semblance of design. It had the sterile feel of a hospital corridor.

  When he had first come to Barnard’s Crossing six years ago, the temple had been brand-spanking-new, and its modernity had a gay sparkle. But now it was beginning to show signs of age. There were scuff marks along the wall, and at one point near the ceiling there was a yellow stain where a pipe joint had let go. The rabbi could not help feeling that the older temples, with their carved paneling in mahogany or walnut, tended to age more gracefully.

  As he neared his study he heard his phone ringing and hurried to answer it. He assumed it was Miriam with a last-minute request to pick up something–a bottle of milk, some rolls–at the grocery, but it was a man’s voice, the tone accusing.

  “Rabbi? Ben Gorfinkle. I called your house, and your wife said you were at the temple.”

  “The morning services–”

  “Of course,” said the temple president, as though conceding it was a legitimate excuse. “You know, Rabbi, the damnedest thing happened this morning. We were chewing the fat over a second cup of coffee, and Sarah mentioned that you were going to Binkerton.”

  “I told you several weeks ago that I was going,” the rabbi remarked.

  “Oh, I knew you were going to hold Sabbath services for some Hillel group, but I didn’t realize you were going to Mass State at Binkerton. It just goes to show you what a small world it is. My Stuart is there.”

  “Oh, really? I didn’t know that.”

  “Look, I thought maybe you’d say hello for us and–”

  “But of course, Mr. Gorfinkle.”

  “I’m sure he’ll come to your service, but just in case he gets tied up, maybe if you took his phone number–”

  “Of course. Just a minute–let me get a piece of paper.” He jotted down the number.

  “It’s a dormitory, so if he’s not there, you can leave a message.”

  “I understand.”

  “If you call him when you get in, maybe he could show you around the campus.”

  “That’s an idea.” He was aware of a voice in the background, and Gorfinkle said, “Just a minute, Rabbi.” Then after an interval of muffled sounds through the covered receiver, “Of course, he may have a class in the afternoon or have some studying to do.”

  The rabbi smiled to himself. Mrs. Gorfinkle must have pointed out that their son might not like the idea of being saddled with the rabbi and his family for the afternoon. “That’s all right. We’ll probably be pretty tired after our trip and will want to rest up.”

  “Well, it’s a thought, anyway. When are you coming back, Rabbi?”

  “Saturday night, right after Havdalah.”

  “Really?” Gorfinkle sounded surprised. “I thought Stuart said–” He sounded his hearty self again. “Well, anyway, it just occurred to me–”

  “Yes?” The rabbi felt sure that he was now to hear the real reason for the call.

  “If you’ve got room in your car, if it’s not crowding you or inconveniencing you in any way–you see, Stuart will be coming home for Passover, and they’ve got a week’s vacation–”

  “That I could give him a lift back?”

  “Only if it wouldn’t be any trouble to you.”

  “I’d be very happy to, Mr. Gorfinkle.”

  He had no sooner hung up when there was a rap on the door, and without waiting to be invited, in came Morton Brooks, the principal of the religious school. He was a bouncy, youngish man of forty, with a kind of theatrical flamboyance about him.

  “Thank God I caught you before you left. When I got the call, I came right over.”

  “What happened?”

  “Arlene Feldberg broke out with measles! The doctor was over last night, but Mrs. Feldberg didn’t think to notify me until this morning.” He sounded betrayed.

  “Arlene Feldberg?”

  Brooks nervously fingered the long strands of hair that he had carefully combed to cover an incipient bald spot. “You know Arlene Feldberg, the little girl from the first grade who’s supposed to say the Four Questions in English at the seder.”

  “Oh, Harry Feldberg’s child. Well, that’s all right.” The rabbi was considerably relieved. For a moment he had thought the principal was concerned about a possible epidemic. “The Haggadahs we’re using have the English translation on the opposite page. Or I suppose the little boy–what’s his name?”

  “Geoffrey Blumenthal.”

  “I’m sure Geoffrey can give the translation after he reads it in the Hebrew.”

  “Impossible, Rabbi.”

  “You mean he doesn’t know what the Hebrew means?”

  “Of course he knows,” said Brooks indignantly, “but there’s a big difference between reading and being able to recite it without adequate rehearsal. But even if there were time to coach him properly, it’s still impossible. In fact, it would be adding insult to injury to let him have both parts. The Feldbergs would never forgive me, and they’d talk about it to their friends, and they include the Paffs and the Edelsteins. I assure you, Rabbi, we’d never hear the end of it.”

  “I see. And Geoffrey is a–”

  “Blumenthal, of course–friends of the Gorfinkles, the Epsteins, and the Brennermans. They’re cousins of the Brennermans, in fact.”

  “Oh, come, Morton. Isn’t that rather silly?”

  “Not at all,” said the principal gravely. “Believe me, Rabbi, this is my third school, and I know how these things work. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you would be wise to pay a little more attention to the politics in the congregation. Oh, you attend the board meetings regularly, but the important developments take place in the school. That’s where it really shows up.”

  “In the religious school?” The rabbi made no attempt to hide his amusement.

  “Of course. The High Holidays are once a year. And the lesser holidays, if they fall during the middle of the week, we don’t get more than seventy-five attending services, like on Friday nights. But the school–the kids go three times a week, and they report anything that happens the minute they get home. You know how we Jews feel about our kids. Any little slight or fancied unfairness, you’d think from the way the parents carry on it was a pogrom.”

  The rabbi smiled. “So what do you want to do about the present–er, crisis?”

  “Well, it’s a problem. Most of the members, as you know, hold their own seders at home, so we don’t have too many children from the first grade who are coming to the temple seder. And the Paff group, who tend to be a little older, have fewer children in the first grade, anyway. But they have better representation in the upper grades. So I thought about that bit about the four kinds of sons. You know, the wise, the foolish, the simple, the wicked son.”

  “I know,” said the rabbi dryly.

  “Yes, of course, Rabbi. Well, I was thinking how would it be if we could act it out, see. You’d say the introductory paragraph, and then the lights would go dark, and we’d have a spotlight focused right in front on the head table.” With tiny steps, he approached the rabbi’s desk, his hands moving to outline the cone of light from the spot. “Then we could have the sons come on one at a time, see. The wise son, say, might come in wearing glasses and reading a book or maybe fiddling with a slide rule. Then he’d suddenly look up and ask his question. Only, the way I see it, we’d modernize it and have him say something like, ‘Golly, this is groovy, Dad. How come the Lord our God asked us to do all these things?’ And the way I visualized the wicked son, he’d be dressed in a black leather jacket and one of those peaked caps and sun goggles, or maybe we could have him dressed as a hippie–you know, barefoot with beads and long hair and faded blue jeans.” He slouched, his head lolling to one side, and he spoke out of one side of his mouth, as though there were a cigarette dangling there. “‘Hey, how come you cats snazzied up your pad
like this? Crazy, man, crazy.’ Do you get the idea?”

  “And how would this help your particular situation?”

  “Well, we have a wider choice among the older children. I had the Edelstein boy tabbed for the part of the wicked son. And being all dressed up, the only one in costume, you might say, it would go a long way–”

  “Have you thought of a rock and roll band for the chants?”

  Brooks looked at him. “Now there’s an idea, Rabbi.”

  “No, Morton. No,” he said firmly. “We’ll stick to a traditional seder if you don’t mind. And let the Blumenthals and Feldbergs just make the best of it.” He rose and edged to the door. “I really have to run now.”

  “Well, think about it over the weekend, won’t you, Rabbi?” Brooks pleaded.

  “I’ll give it all my free time,” said the rabbi with unwonted sarcasm.

  But Brooks was not to be put off. “No, seriously, Rabbi, what’s wrong with livening up the ceremony so’s to capture the interest of the kids? Everybody’s doing it now–the Catholics, everybody. They’ve even held jazz masses. After all, the seder’s a celebration. Why shouldn’t they have a good time?”

  The rabbi stopped at the door. “Because, Morton, the Passover seder is something more than a celebration. It’s a ritual in which every step is spelled out–and for a purpose. The whole point of a ritual is that it should be repeated exactly every time it is performed for it to have the proper effect. And now if you don’t mind, I really am in something of a hurry.”

  Outside, he stopped for a moment to make sure the windows of his study were closed in case it should rain over the weekend. The exterior of the building was also showing signs of wear, he saw. The stainless steel columns, which Christian Sorenson, the architect, had said were intended to suggest “the purity of the religion and its resistance to the decay and erosion of time,” had taken on a dull yellowish tinge–the effect of the salt air, no doubt. And the long walls of glazed white brick that jutted out from either side of the tall boxlike building and sloped away in gentle curves–“like a pair of open and embracing arms calling on people to come and worship”–were chipped here and there and showed black spaces like missing teeth.