A photograph showed the device used, a small, oblong box of black plastic that looked like a pocket radio. Indeed, on one side was a dial which, when pulled out, actuated the mechanism, exploding the charge approximately an hour later. A notice in bold type accompanied the article, explaining that anyone who came across such a device could interrupt the action and prevent the explosion by depressing the plunger. Although this would not render it harmless, it could be reactivated by reversing the process and withdrawing the plunger again—it would make it safe enough to handle.
Most of the paper was devoted to the story, and the rabbi read it all avidly. An Army demolition expert was quoted as disparaging the device. “It is not a very powerful bomb,” he said with the objectivity of the professional “and the thrust is only in one direction.”
A neighbor who was interviewed said he understood the victim had been working on something that would have been of great value to Arab farmers.
An editorial heatedly attacked the psychology of the terrorist which led him to regard his nefarious attacks on innocent civilians as waging war.
The rabbi returned the newspaper to the rack, paid for his coffee, and left the café. He had overcome his momentary impulse to hurry home to search the apartment on the chance that a small black plastic box had been left there. He wondered if Miriam knew about the explosion and whether she was frightened or concerned. And if not, if he should tell her. But as he walked along, he realized that she was sure to know. She and Gittel had gone to the supermarket to shop. People would be talking about it, and even though the talk would be in Hebrew, Gittel would understand. And Gittel would tell her and, if necessary, calm her. It was two o’clock now, and on the streets people hurried as though they all were late for an important appointment. The stores were either closed or closing, the proprietors obviously also in a hurry. On one corner there was a booth where flowers were being sold; only here was the shopkeeper still doing business. But he, too, was busily trying to service the three or four customers who were waiting impatiently. The rabbi joined the group and bought a bunch of carnations. Then he too hurried home.
Miriam and Jonathan were there when he arrived, but Gittel had gone. “Uri usually gets a weekend pass,” Miriam explained. “Naturally, she wants to be home to receive him. I suggested that she try to get word to him through the Army people to come to Jerusalem instead of Tel Aviv, but I guess even Gittel couldn’t manage that.”
“Did she try?” asked the rabbi.
“No, as a matter of fact, I gather she considers it unpatriotic to bother the Army with unimportant requests. The Army is sort of sacrosanct over here.”
“It must be if she didn’t try to manage it,” he said dryly.
“Oh, but she’s a good soul, David.”
He looked surprised. “But of course. I think she’s grand. I don’t mind her managing. She comes of a long line of matriarchal managers, all the way from Devorah to Golda. It’s a tradition with us. In the shtetl, while the men studied, the women ran things.” He smiled. “You’ve got a little of it yourself, you know. I’m only sorry Gittel is not with us to celebrate our first Sabbath in Israel.” He handed her the flowers and kissed her. “A happy Sabbath.”
He wanted to ask if she had heard the news, but Jonathan came running into the room. “I was in school, Daddy, and I’m going every day—with Shaouli from upstairs.”
“That’s fine, Jonathan.” He touched his hair affectionately. “And how did you like school?”
“Oh, it, was all right.” Then with special excitement: “You know, the kids here, they don’t know how to throw a ball. They kick it. With their feet.”
“Well, that’s mighty interesting.” He wanted to say more. He wanted to question his son about the school. He wanted to ask Miriam how she had spent the day. But he could not; he was too tired.
“I walked all over the city,” he began by way of explanation.
“Why don’t you go and lie down for a while, David, and catch a nap? I did,” Miriam said, “and I felt wonderful afterward.”
“Yes, I think I will.” He hesitated. “Did you hear about—”
She quickly turned to make sure Jonathan was out of earshot. “Yes, but let’s not discuss it now. Go and lie down.”
He had no sooner kicked off his shoes than he fell asleep. It seemed only a few minutes later when Miriam awakened him. “You’d better get up now, David. It’s our first Sabbath in Jerusalem, and I think we should eat together. Besides, I don’t want to keep Jonathan up too late.”
He sat up with a jolt. “What time is it?”
“It’s seven o’clock.”
“But the evening service, it’s over by now.”
“I didn’t have the heart to waken you. You were sleeping so soundly. It’s the long plane ride. Our internal clocks are out of kilter.”
He rose and washed, splashing cool water on his face. He felt refreshed as he came into the dining room and saw that the table was set, the candles lit, and his flowers in a vase in the center of the table. He sat down at the head of the table and filled the kiddush cup.
Then he rose and began the ancient prayer, “On the sixth day….”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Almost from the day he arrived in Barnard’s Crossing, Rabbi Hugo Deutch had been involved in a series of conferences with Cantor Zimbler and Henry Selig, the chairman of the Ritual Committee. The latter had been appointed to this important post by the president largely on the basis of the speed with which he read the prayers. Bert Raymond had gone to the minyan to say Kaddish on the anniversary of his father’s death and there had noticed Selig. “He’s the first one to sit down at Shemon Esrah. The first time I saw him, I figured he must be skipping like I do, but then I sat next to him, and he really reads the stuff. His lips practically vibrate. He must know it by heart.”
As a matter of fact, he did know the daily prayers by heart, and that was the full extent of his knowledge of Jewish ritual. He interposed no objections, therefore, to Rabbi Deutch’s plans. The cantor was a harder nut to crack. He was entirely agreeable to any suggestion that expanded his part in the service, but when Rabbi Deutch suggested that a particular prayer might be dispensed with, especially if it called for an extended musical rendition, he would say plaintively, “But, Rabbi, this prayer establishes the mood for the whole service.” Or sometimes he pleaded on purely personal grounds—that it was the best solo in his repertoire: “I sing the first part of this falsetto, and then the next part in my regular voice, then falsetto again, then the regular voice again. It’s just like a duet, and the folks here are crazy about it. There hasn’t been a single Friday evening service when someone didn’t come to me afterward to compliment me on that particular prayer.”
But Rabbi Deutch knew his own mind and had had long experience in dealing with temperamental cantors. “Look, Cantor, there’s one rule about running a successful Friday evening service program, and that is, keep it short and snappy. Remember, it’s a week-in and week-out thing. If the service is long drawn out, the congregation gets tired, and first thing you know, they stop coming. It’s got to be kept under an hour. Remember, they’ve had their evening meal, and they want to relax. So they hear you sing a little, and they sing a little; we have a couple of responsive readings to give them a feeling of the solemnity of the Sabbath; I give them a short sermon; the Amidah is a little interlude where they get a chance to get up and stretch their legs a bit; and then we close with a snappy Adon Olam and they go down to the vestry for tea and cake and general conversation. It’s a nice evening’s entertainment, and you’ll find that the attendance will grow from week to week.”
He had other ideas about improving the service, and on his first Friday night he managed to put them all together. As the congregation began to arrive and take their seats, they noticed that the high thronelike chairs on the dais on either side of the ark normally occupied by the rabbi and the cantor were empty. The service was scheduled to begin at eight o’c
lock and by a quarter of eight the congregation, anxious to see its new rabbi in action, had arrived and was seated. But still the seats on the dais remained empty.
The organ had been playing mood music, a series of mournful cadenzas in a minor key, but at ten minutes to eight the sound suddenly shifted to the major in a swelling diapason as the door of the enrobing room opened and the rabbi appeared, majestic in black gown and silken prayer shawl, a high velvet yarmulke like a cantor’s on his head. He paused a moment and then moved slowly up the steps of the dais and stood in front of the ark, his back to the congregation. He stood thus for a minute or two, his head slightly bowed, and then straightened up and walked to his seat beside the ark.
Seated, he looked over the congregation, his face impassive, and what little murmuring of whispered conversation there had been stopped, as they felt his gaze rest upon them. At two minutes of eight he rose from his seat and approached the lectern. He did not face the congregation directly, but his body was turned slightly toward the door of the enrobing room. He stood thus expectantly waiting, and at eight o’clock exactly the door opened once again, and the cantor appeared and from the threshold began to chant Ma Tovu, How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob. Slowly, still chanting, the cantor mounted the steps to the dais while the rabbi remained standing, facing him. The chant ended just as he reached the lectern and only then did the rabbi retire to his seat beside the ark.
The cantor then sang the L’Cha Dodie with the congregation joining in on the refrain, after which the rabbi came forward to announce in his deep baritone, “We will now read responsively, the psalm on page twelve of your prayer books,” and he read the first verse and then went on to join the congregation as they read the next verse, his rich voice plainly heard above the mumble of the congregation.
And the service was short and snappy. His sermon lasted only fifteen minutes, and at no time was any portion of the program permitted to drag. The congregation enjoyed the cantor’s singing because there was not too much of it, and that their own portion of the service was largely confined to responsive reading where the rabbi did half the work gave them a pleasant sense of participation and yet was not onerous, and the Amidah, because it was recited while standing and in silence, was almost a kind of recess.
There were objections, of course. Some of the older members were not altogether pleased that their rabbi chose to wear a black robe, which to them was reminiscent of priests and ministers. And they also thought that the preliminaries were over-dramatic and hence smacked of theatricality and artificiality. But most approved.
“Look, what’s the most stable religious organization in the world? The Catholic Church, right? And what’s their stock-in-trade if not drama and ceremonial? They know what brings them back week after week—a good show, and they put one on.”
These same dissidents found some objection to the sermon. “To me, he really didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t take forty minutes to do it.”
But even the most antagonistic were forced to admit that the service was marked by great decorum, that favorite shibboleth of Conservative Judaism.
By far the great majority, however, thought it was a wonderful service and made a point of coming over to the rabbi to tell him so.
“I really enjoyed it, Rabbi. I haven’t come to Friday evening service much in the past, but you’ll be seeing me every week from now on.”
“That sermon of yours, Rabbi, it struck a responsive chord if you know what I mean. I’ll be thinking about it for a long time.”
“You know, tonight for the first time I felt like I was taking part in something—well—holy. That’s the only way I can put it.”
“Me too, Rabbi. It was the best Sabbath I can remember.”
Bert Raymond, standing beside Rabbi Deutch, beamed.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
The effects of their journey on their internal time clocks had not yet worn off, and the Smalls slept through the early hours of the morning—the rabbi, and Miriam since there was no Gittel to awaken her to the duties of the day, and even Jonathan. The bright sun shining directly into their faces awakened them; it was after ten o’clock and too late to go to the synagogue.
Miriam was remorseful. “I know you wanted to go to the synagogue on your first Sabbath in Jerusalem,” she said.
“I had planned to,” he said lightly, “but there’ll be other Sabbaths. Why don’t we all take a walk? There’s a park bordering King George Street.”
As they walked through the streets of the city, they realized that they were experiencing something new—a whole city observing the Sabbath. All the stores were closed—that was to be expected—but it was more than that. There were no buses running and almost no automobiles on the streets. The traffic lights were operating on flashing yellow instead of alternating red and green. And people were strolling along the streets as they were doing; men with their wives and children, all in their Sabbath best, walking three and four abreast, not going anywhere, just enjoying the weather.
Others, on their way home from the synagogue, were walking more purposefully, some of them still wearing their prayer shawls draped over their shoulders to avoid carrying them, which would of course be work of a kind and hence a breach of the Sabbath. Now and again they saw a Chassid, brave in his Sabbath finery, the broad-brimmed black felt replaced by a fur streimal, the short knickerlike pantaloons gathered just below the knee, the legs encased in white stockings. Some were garbed in the long black silk robe kept closed by a sash. Others, the younger ones for the most part, favored a Prince Albert, which because it was warm, they kept open, thereby displaying the fringes of the tallis katon, the small prayer shawl they wore all the time, showing beneath their vests; around their waists the braided girdle they put on for prayer and that served to separate the lower and more earthy portions of the body from the upper and presumably more spiritual portions.
“Why do they dress like that, David?” asked Miriam.
He grinned. “Strictly speaking, pure conservatism. That’s the costume of the well-to-do Polish and Russian merchant of the eighteenth century, presumably what Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the movement in the eighteenth century, wore, and in emulation of the rebbe, they wear it, too. I guess the Amish in Pennsylvania do the same thing and for the same reason. We tend to associate clothes with attitudes. That may be why people nowadays object to the new mod clothes; they consider them indicative of a rebellion and a break not only with traditional styles but with traditional morals and values.”
“I don’t mind it in the old ones,” said Miriam, “but the young ones—that they should adhere so closely to the tradition—that one there, he can’t be more than thirteen or fourteen.”
The rabbi followed her gaze. “He’s something of a dandy, isn’t he? That streimal—it’s mink isn’t it?—must have cost his folks a pretty penny.” His voice took on a melancholy note. “It’s a sad paradox that while they adhere so strongly to the fashion in clothes, they have largely departed from the spirit of the movement. Chassidism was originally a kind of romantic mysticism, a movement of joy and laughter, of singing and dancing, that involved a kind of direct confrontation with God. It was a useful and necessary reaction to the meticulous observance of religious regulations that was characteristic of the time. But now it has come full circle, and this group is the most pedantic in its strict adherence to the letter of the law.”
In the park, boys ranging in age from ten to twenty and more were playing football. The games were informal, with teams chosen at random; it was a vigorous game, and frequently players came crashing together, but no one seemed to get hurt.
The Smalls sat down on a park bench and watched. Other spectators were sitting on the grass on the edge of the improvised playing field, and although every now and then the ball would come sailing over their heads or players would race around them to get at it, no one seemed to mind.
They sat there on the park bench in the bright sunlight relu
ctant to move on. Jonathan after a few minutes had wandered off and stood watching a group of younger boys playing with a smaller and lighter ball. Once it flew toward him and came to rest in front of his feet. “Kick it back,” one of the children shouted in Hebrew. He did not understand, but automatically he kicked at it and was surprised and delighted to see it sail in an arc for some distance. Overjoyed at his success as well as a little fearful that he should not have kicked it so far, he ran to his parents, shouting, “I kicked it, I kicked it. Did you see me? Did you see me kick the ball?”
His mother gave him a hug.
“That was a fine kick,” said the rabbi. “Maybe if you go back, you’ll get a chance to kick it again, or maybe they’ll let you play.”
“David!” cried Miriam. “Those boys are two or three years older than Jonathan. He’d get hurt.”
“Oh, I don’t know, nobody seems to get hurt. And there doesn’t seem to be any fighting among the kids. Look around you.”
But Jonathan was unwilling to venture and snuggled against his mother. Presently, the games began to break up as the noon hour approached. The Smalls, too, decided to leave, walking at the leisurely pace that seemed in keeping with the spirit of the day.
“This is the first Sabbath in a long time that you haven’t gone to the synagogue, David,” said Miriam as they neared their house.
“So it is, but I don’t feel that I missed anything,” he said. “I’ve always gone, not only because it was expected of me as a rabbi and before that as a rabbinical student and before that as the son of a rabbi, but because I always had the feeling that it was the way to impose the Sabbath on my week. I’d dress a little differently, and I’d walk to the temple, leaving the house in good time so as not to have to hurry. And I’d walk back the same way because I knew there was no pressing business I had to come back to. I suppose I did it as much in an effort to establish as to celebrate the Sabbath. Well, here you don’t have to establish the Sabbath. You don’t have to impose it on your work-week. It’s done for you. The whole city is keeping the Sabbath. You know, although I didn’t get to go to the synagogue, it was the best Sabbath I can remember.”
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