Monday the Rabbi Took Off

by Harry Kemelman

  “How do you know all this, Jacob? Did the rabbi confide in you?”

  “No, he didn’t confide in me, and he didn’t ask my advice. But I know it just the same. I knew it when I heard that he wasn’t taking any money from the temple while he’s on his vacation. Because if he took his salary while he wasn’t working, like you might say if he took money for nothing, then he would feel obliged to come back. So when he wouldn’t take the money or a contract or anything, that meant he wasn’t sure he was coming back. Not sure, you understand. Because if he was sure he wasn’t coming back, he would just have resigned. And that’s why he didn’t write us yet. Because so far he hasn’t yet made up his mind.” He looked at Becker. “Now, how do you put that on a postcard?”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  The voice was so loud that the rabbi held the receiver a little away from his ear. “Rabbi? Shalom. I’ll bet you’ll never guess who’s speaking. Well, it’s V. S. Markevitch, that’s who.”

  In his mind’s eye, the rabbi could see the speaker at the other end of the wire, beaming with satisfaction at the pleasant surprise he had been able to confer on him. V. S. Markevitch was always conferring pleasant surprises on his friends and acquaintances. Back in Barnard’s Crossing, he would drop in on someone of an evening without bothering to call in advance, and even when he found they were preparing to go out, he was never put out of countenance, but would talk, raising his voice so that the lady of the house, who was in the bedroom putting on her makeup, would not miss anything he was saying to her husband, who was forced by politeness to remain in the room and zigzag his tie on there without the aid of the bedroom mirror. He was always sure people were glad to see him.

  He usually referred to himself in the third person, rarely using the pronoun, preferring to repeat the mouth-filling name as often as necessary. He was not a member of the board of directors of the temple, but he did not hesitate to get up at general meetings and Brotherhood get-togethers to give his opinions. Rising to his feet, his round bald head gleaming, his mouth wide in a perpetual smile, he would say, “Mr. Chairman, V. S. Markevitch would like to comment on the motion on the floor.” When recognized, he would bombard his listeners with, “V. S. Markevitch feels that…” and “In the humble opinion of V. S. Markevitch …”

  “When did you arrive, Mr. Markevitch?” said the rabbi.

  “Just got in.” The voice sounded surprised as if to convey the idea that it was unthinkable for V. S. Markevitch to come to Israel for whatever reason and not call his rabbi the very first thing.

  “Are you alone, Mr. Markevitch? Or is Mrs. Markevitch with you? Are you on a tour?”

  “I’m here with just Katz, my partner. We’re here on business, Rabbi. We got a bunch of meetings scheduled, one with the Minister of Industrial Development for sure, and then we join a group that will meet with the Prime Minister, but that’s later on in the week. It’s probably nothing very much to you. I guess by this time you’ve met all the big shots—”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll be able to introduce you to them—after I’ve met them. Now here’s what I’d like. We got a cab, and they’re just loading our things on, and we’re taking off for Jerusalem in a couple of minutes. We’ll be staying at the King David tonight and tomorrow. Then we go off to Haifa. So how’s about us getting together, and maybe you could show us the town, all the sights and things?”

  “Well, I’m not much of a guide, but I’ll be happy to see you and show you and Mr. Katz around.”

  “It’s a date, Rabbi.”

  They met the next morning in the lobby of the hotel. Markevitch and Katz had just finished their breakfast in the cafeteria, but they thought they would like another cup of coffee, and so the three men sat around a table sipping at coffee and talking about Barnard’s Crossing.

  Markevitch jokingly called Joe Katz his silent partner—“on account I’m apt to do all the talking.” Whereas Markevitch was big and expansive, with a wide smile seemingly cutting his melon-like head in two, Katz was a small, worried man with sad eyes and a shy smile. As Markevitch talked, Katz was silent, nodding at his partner’s sallies, wincing occasionally when he felt his partner had uttered an indiscretion.

  Markevitch’s voice was not so much loud as never lowered. Regardless of where he was, he spoke in his normal conversational tones. In the lobby, he spoke as though he were addressing all the guests in the hotel. So all the guests heard that the Mazurs were getting a divorce. Josiah Goldfarb’s boy had been arrested for drugs. The Hirshes had sold their hardware business in Lynn and were moving to Florida. Max Kaufman’s boy, Al, had won first prize at the high school science fair. There was a new traffic light on Elm Street just before the temple, which should make it safer for the kids going to the religious school. Lenny Epstein had pledged a thousand dollars to the School Fund.

  Finally, the rabbi managed to ask, “And how is Rabbi Deutch getting along?”

  “Ah,” said V. S. beaming, “we hit the jackpot with that one, Rabbi. I thought when I heard you were taking a vacation, you’d palm off some kid out of the seminary on us as a substitute. Or if not that, then some shlemiehl who couldn’t normally get a decent job. But when you picked Rabbi Deutch, you picked a good one. And the rebbitzin too. She’s a real high-class lady.”

  “I didn’t pick him,” said the rabbi. “He was picked by the committee. I had never met him.”

  “Oh, is that so? I thought it was you who picked him. I went to the reception, if you remember. And seeing you folks and the Deutches standing there so chummy and talking and all, I just assumed—well, anyway, he’s a good man. I mean when he gets up there in the pulpit”—he straightened up in his chair and looked around the room in imitation of Rabbi Deutch in the pulpit—“and gives a sermon in that voice of his, sometimes the shivers go up and down your spine. Of course, I haven’t had much to do with him, but you hear people talking and they’re pretty impressed, even Gentiles in town, I mean. You know they asked him to serve on the Library Committee? Now for an outsider…. And the rebbitzin, did you know Dan Stedman is her brother, the TV commentator, I mean? They took right over as soon as they came to town, and they fit right in.”

  “That’s nice. Then he’s happy in Barnard’s Crossing?”

  “That same question V. S. Markevitch addressed to Rabbi Deutch no later than last Friday night at the Oneg Shabbat. We were all standing around drinking tea and V. S. Markevitch sashays up to the rabbi and says”—his voice became businesslike—“ ‘Rabbi Deutch, we like you here, and we all think you’re doing a swell job, but do you like it here?’ A lot of people say that V. S. Markevitch is always shooting off his mouth, but he says if you don’t ask you don’t find out.”

  “And what was his answer?” the rabbi asked.

  “Well, now you tell me, you be the judge, if he likes it in Barnard’s Crossing. He says in that high-toned way of his, ‘It’s a lovely, pleasant town, Mr. Markevitch, and in addition, for me, it has the added advantage of being only a half hour’s ride from the great libraries of Boston and Cambridge.’ He’s a great scholar, you know. Now what do you think? Does he like it, or does he like it?”

  The rabbi smiled. “I get your point, Mr. Markevitch.”

  Markevitch’s voice suddenly changed to a hoarse whisper not a decibel lower than his normal speaking voice. “There’s even talk around that maybe we’re big enough now to have two rabbis and that maybe Rabbi Deutch might be willing to stay on. What do you think of that?” He sat back in his chair and looked quizzically at the rabbi.

  “Well, I can see some problems that—”

  “Sure, that’s what Markevitch said when he first heard about it. Didn’t he, Katz?” He leaned forward again and went on confidentially, “Rabbi Deutch is the older and more experienced man, so he couldn’t be assistant to Rabbi Small. On the other hand, Rabbi Small had the job first, so he’s not going to like the idea of stepping down to play second fiddle to Rabbi Deutch no matter how
old and experienced he is.”

  Katz winced. He touched his partner. “Please, Markevitch.”

  Markevitch turned and stared. “Whatsamatter, Katz?” Then he turned to the rabbi again. “What I say is, why can’t there be like two associate rabbis, both equal, especially where it looks like we’re going to have to run two services, one upstairs and one downstairs in the vestry? And the way I see it, where our holidays all run two days, they could take turns conducting the service upstairs, which it will no doubt be the more important one. And they could toss a coin for who gets first whacks. What do you think, Rabbi?”

  Rabbi Small pursed his lips. “It’s an interesting speculation.”

  Markevitch poked his partner with his elbow. “See, Katz, you don’t ask, you don’t find out. Rabbi Small is interested. You think about it, Rabbi. Now, how’s about seeing the town?”

  “I suppose you’d like to see the Wall first?”

  “Yeah, we’d like to see the Wall. We got a special reason.” He smiled and winked at his partner.

  They took a cab, and all through the short ride, Markevitch, who sat in the middle, kept turning from side to side so as not to miss any sight they passed. “Look at that, Katz, out there … it’s past now. It was a—What’s that, Rabbi? … Oh, look at that old Jew with the whiskers … Hey, that’s an Arab, isn’t it? I mean when they wear those checkered shmattes around their heads, then they’re Arabs. Right? … Hey, that must be some kind of a church….” He kept it up until they were deposited at Jaffa Gate, asking questions and not waiting for answers, pointing out whatever he thought unusual—people, buildings, signs.

  “I thought we’d go this way, so you’d get a chance to see the Old City,” the rabbi explained.

  They crossed the plaza beyond the gate and approached the tunnellike street.

  Katz drew back. “You mean we go through there? Is it safe?”

  “Sure, Katz. Look at those two old geezers with the beards. If they can go through, I guess it’s safe for us.”

  They entered. Markevitch commented, his words expressing not so much wonder as incredulity. “Imagine, Katz, this is a street…. This is by them a regular street…. Imagine … look at those women with the veils. What are they afraid of? … How can people live like this? … Look, there’s a shoe store. Better not stop, Katz, or you’ll maybe have to buy … this junk … who buys it? … How can they make a living…. Look, there’s a guy selling halvah…. When was the last time you ate halvah, Katz? … This is what they call a butcher shop, I suppose…. Look, everything open … I guess they never heard of sanitation….”

  At last they came to the Wall. They surveyed the plaza in front of it, and Markevitch said, “Now this is something like. I guess you come here practically every day, huh, Rabbi?”

  “Well, I’ve been here a few times.”

  “Gee, I’d think you’d be here every day, praying, I mean.”

  “No, Mr. Markevitch, I don’t feel it’s necessary. Prayers are no stronger for being made in front of the Wall.”

  “Can we go right up to it?” asked Katz. “Or do we have to buy a ticket, or make a contribution—that guy at the desk there—”

  “He’s just distributing paper yarmulkes for those who don’t have head coverings. No, you can go right on up. There’s no charge.”

  “Imagine, Katz, no charge. Not even a silver collection. Look, Rabbi”—for the first time Markevitch dropped his voice—“we were wondering if you could say a prayer for us. What we had in mind was some special kind of prayer maybe where you could ask for the success of our enterprise—”

  “Especially the financing,” said Katz.

  “That’s right, especially the financing, but I was thinking of the whole shmeer.”

  The rabbi shook his head. “With us it’s every man for himself, Mr. Markevitch. We Jews have no intermediary between man and God. You can stand right up close to the Wall if you feel that will be especially efficacious, and you can say what you have in your mind and heart.”

  “But I don’t know any Hebrew except maybe some of the prayers, you know, like the blessings for bread or wine—”

  “I’m sure God will understand if you speak in English or even if you just think it.”

  “You don’t think He’d mind where it’s a matter of business? After all, it’s for the good of the country.”

  The rabbi smiled. “People ask for all kinds of favors. Some who come here even write little notes and stick them between the stones. See?”

  “Yeah.” Markevitch looked around and, seeing that he was unobserved, pried loose several of the rolled-up bits of paper. He unrolled one and, as it was in Hebrew, passed it to the rabbi. “What’s it say?”

  The rabbi read: “I have six daughters and my wife is heavy with a seventh child. Grant, Dear God, that it should be a male so he can say the Kaddish for me and my wife after we are gone.”

  Markevitch unrolled another, and the rabbi read and translated: “My wife is sick. She is a burden to herself and to me. Dear God, either take her to your bosom or make her well.”

  Markevitch shook his head and made little clucking noises of pity. He felt constrained to justify his intrusion on another’s grief. “It’s not that Markevitch is nosy, rabbi. It’s just he wants to get the general picture.” He unrolled the third. “Oh, this one is in English. This is more like it,” and he read aloud to them: “American Telephone—52, IBM—354, Chrysler—48, General Motors—81. I ask not for riches, just for enough of a rise, dear God, so I can bail out.”

  He folded the bits of paper carefully and reinserted them in a crevice in the wall. “It’s worth a try, Katz. Give me a pencil and piece of paper.”

  The rabbi waited while they wrote out their petition and insinuated it in a crack between two stones. They stood in front of the Wall, muttering what scraps of Hebrew they knew. Even though he was standing at a little distance, he could not help hearing the voice of V. S. Markevitch reciting the blessing for wine, the blessing for bread, and then after a pause, the four questions that the youngest child at the Seder asks on Passover. Then for a couple of minutes Markevitch stood silent, his eyes shut tight, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. Finally, he said, “It’s V. S. Markevitch that’s asking, dear God,” and stepped back.

  People continued to arrive, and just as they turned to go, they saw a group of Americans, prosperous middle-aged people like themselves, under the leadership of one of their number whose black hat and more sober costume suggested that he might be the rabbi who was conducting their tour. “Just spread out and stand right along the Wall,” he ordered. “Don’t be afraid. Don’t be bashful. You’ve got just as much right here as anyone else. Now, if you’ll all turn to page sixty-one …”

  Markevitch looked significantly at his partner and nodded in the direction of the praying Americans.

  They left the Wall and took a cab to Zion Square. They strolled along Ben Yehuda Street and Jaffa Road, the business area of the new city. They were obviously disappointed in the narrow streets and the small, poorly decorated shops.

  “This sure ain’t no Fifth Avenue, eh, Katz?” said Markevitch.

  “Fifth Avenue it ain’t, or even Boylston Street or Washington Street, but look how little capital you need to start a business here.”

  The rabbi thought they might be tired and steered them to a nearby café. They ordered coffee and looked about them at the occupants of the other tables, several of whom were reading the newspapers and magazines.

  “They come here to read?” asked Katz.

  “They come to meet their friends, to read, to talk, to break the monotony of the day over a cup of coffee,” the rabbi explained.

  “I guess they never heard of customer turnover here,” said Markevitch, putting down his cup. “Where to now, Rabbi?”

  The rabbi nodded to the waitress. She came over.

  “Anything else, gentlemen? Then three coffees—three lira.”

  “I thought we might take a look at the univer
sity now,” said the rabbi, reaching in his pocket.

  Markevitch put a restraining hand on his arm. “No, Rabbi, when V. S. Markevitch eats, V. S. Markevitch pays. How much is it?”

  “No, Mr. Markevitch,” said the rabbi, and he clinked some coins into the waitress’s outstretched hand. “You are guests, visitors to the country, and I am a resident.”

  At the university the partners expanded. This was more like it. They had been obviously disappointed in what they had seen so far. The Old City had been quaint, to be sure, and the people picturesque which was interesting in the movies and picture postcards, but up close, the quaint and the picturesque were dirty and ragged and smelly. The Western Wall—well, it was just a wall. They had not felt the anticipated magic of it. And Zion Square, too, was old and shabby, not like the Old City, to be sure, but also certainly not what they had been led to expect from the slides and movies that were shown at fund-raising meetings they had attended. But the university—new, modern buildings, wide plazas, open and spacious surroundings, this was what they had expected the whole city, indeed the whole country, to be like. Over the years, they had bought Israeli bonds and made contributions. Now, at last, they could see that their money had been put to good use. They walked about, breathing deeply of the clean, fresh air as though it had been generated by the new buildings. They stopped and conscientiously read each of the bronze plaques as they came across them.

  “Donated by the Isaacson Family, Montreal…. Through the generosity of Arthur Bornstein, Poughkeepsie…. Established in memory of Sadie Aptaker …. The Harry G. Altshuler Room…. Morris D. Marcus Memorial Library of Industrial Design….”