Someday the Rabbi Will Leave

by Harry Kemelman

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll explain the situation to him and ask him to officiate.”

  “He’ll refuse.”

  “Then I’ll tell him I’ll get someone else.”

  “He won’t like it,” said Halperin.

  “I don’t like it myself. Not any part of it. Frankly, I don’t like the idea of my daughter marrying John Scofield. I don’t like the idea of her insisting on having a rabbi marry them when they could get some judge or clerk of the court to do it. I don’t even like the jesuitical hair-splitting on my daughter’s part that’s involved. Because obviously when my mother-in-law made her promise that she would be married by a rabbi, she meant that she should marry a Jew, born or at least converted. But in the course of a busy life, I’ve run up against many things that I didn’t like, but had to take anyway.”

  “Yeah, but the rabbi may feel that he doesn’t have to take this one.”

  “So what can he do?”

  “I don’t know, except refuse.”

  32

  Paul Kramer was arraigned Monday morning in the Salem court. Sergeant Dunstable was present, both as the arresting officer and because he had escorted the defendant from the Barnard’s Crossing station house. The assistant district attorney, Charlie Venturo, argued for high bail on the ground that it was a serious crime, homicide. John Scofield, appearing for the accused, argued that Paul had no previous record, that he was in school, and there was no reason to suppose that he would not be available for trial.

  The judge nodded and addressing Paul, said, “I’m setting the trial date for November twentieth. I am releasing you on your personal recognizance. You’ll receive notice of the trial through the mail, but even if you don’t get it, that’s the date I’m putting you down for and you’re to be here. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir, I mean, Your Honor.”

  Scofield was extremely pleased with himself inasmuch as he had bested Venturo even though it was in a minor matter. He could not help voicing his pleasure to his rival as they left the courtroom. “I got you this time, Charlie.”

  Venturo, who from long experience had expected nothing else, smiled and said, “You win some and you lose some. You won, so you buy the drinks.” Later as they sat in the café, he asked, “How’d you happen to get involved in this one, Jack?”

  To which Scofield replied, “The kid called me. He says he met me at some party where I stopped in for a few minutes when I was campaigning.”

  “Did he come up with any money?”

  “No, but I figure when his folks get home, I’ll talk to them. I’m sure they’ll pay my fee.”

  Venturo nodded. “I suppose in private practice, sometimes you got to work it that way.”

  Sergeant Dunstable returned to Barnard’s Crossing and reported to Lanigan, who was neither surprised nor indignant. “Naturally. The boy is no criminal. They let them go in a lot worse cases without bail. Hell, they’d have no place to put them if they didn’t.”

  He made a note of the trial date on his calendar, and put the case out of his mind. In spite of the doubts Rabbi Small had expressed, he felt that he had an iron-clad case.

  But the next afternoon, the desk sergeant poked his head through the door of Lanigan’s office and said, “Somebody here who has something on the Glen Lane hit-and-run case, Chief.”

  “Okay, send him in.”

  “It’s not a him, it’s a her.”

  “Then send her in.”

  The sergeant beckoned with his head, and then stood aside to admit a young woman in jeans and a sweatshirt, the arms of which were pushed up to the elbows. Her obviously bleached blond hair was curled Afro style, brushed back in such a way as to expose both ears from which jangled jet earrings. She was wearing a colorless lipstick which gave her lips a moist pink look. Her eyes were carefully shadowed in blue above and green below, and the edges of the eyelids were lined in black. Her jeans were worn seductively—very tight across the seat—and as she moved to the chair in front of the desk, her breasts, unhampered by a bra, jiggled underneath the sweatshirt.

  “I just came to tell you that you’re all wrong about Paul Kramer. He didn’t do it.”

  “Is that so? How do you know?”

  “On account I was with him that night. From around quarter past eight on. And he never left the house.”

  Lanigan, who had been lazing back in his swivel chair, leaned forward and sat upright. He eyed her keenly. “What’s your name?”

  “Fran Kimball.”

  “And you live …?”

  “On Elm Street.”

  “Elm Street? Tom, no, Ted Kimball?”

  “He’s my father. But he doesn’t live with us anymore.”

  “About three or four years ago?”

  “More like six,” she said.

  “All right. Now, you say you were with Paul Kramer that night. What do you mean? Until when?”

  Until next morning when we went to school together.”

  “You were there all night? You spent the night with him?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did your mother know?”

  “Of course not. I had my friend Beth McAllister cover for me. See, I had this quiz the next day, that is, we both did, I mean Paul and I.”

  “You go to Northeastern?”

  “That’s right. I’m a senior in Business Management. Paul is just a sophomore, but we take the same course in American Literature on account of it’s required. We sit next to each other because our names are close. Alphabetically, you know, Kimball, Kramer. And sometimes, I hitch a ride from him. So, that day, Wednesday, we were driving home and we talked about the quiz we had to take the next day, and he said he was prepared. He’s a brain—”

  “A brain?”

  “I mean, he studies a lot. I was going to use the College Outline. That’s a book that gives you a kind of outline of all the reading. But when I got home, I found I didn’t have the book. I mean, the College Outline book. I’d left it in my locker at school. So naturally I called him and asked if I could borrow his, and he said he didn’t have one, that he didn’t use one. He just reads all the stuff.”

  “Imagine,” Lanigan murmured.

  “So I asked if maybe I could go over to his place and we could study it together. He’d told me his folks had started on a long trip across the country that morning, so I knew it was all right on account of he’d be alone.”

  “Did he suggest you spend the night with him?”

  “Oh no. He’s awfully young, maybe nineteen.”

  “And you.”

  “I’m twenty-two.”

  “Spending the night with him was your idea, then?”

  “Yeah, kind of. I didn’t plan to, you understand. It just happened that way. See, I didn’t tell my mother I was going to his house, on account of she’d ask all kinds of questions, like who was going to be there and what time I was coming home. I told her I was going over to Beth’s house. When I got there, I called Beth and asked her to cover for me—”

  “Just how does that work, covering for you?”

  “Oh, you know, if my mother should call, Beth would say I was in the bathroom, or that I had stepped out for a minute, and that she’d have me call her back. Then she’d call me at Paul’s house—I gave her the number, see—and I’d call back.”

  “And did she call?”

  “Uh-uh. But then around ten o’clock, I called her, I mean, my mother, and told her I was staying over at Beth’s and I’d be going to school from there.”

  “I see. And this was around ten o’clock?”

  “Just about. Yeah, because Paul wanted to turn on the TV for the ten o’clock news.” Her forehead wrinkled as she concentrated. “Yeah, just before ten, on account of when I got back from the phone, the news was just starting. See, by that time, I could see there was an awful lot of work to be done, and it would take until way after midnight. He was outlining all the reading for me, and I was writing it all down. He knew it all. Awesome!”

/>   “All right. And when did you finish?”

  “Must’ve been around one. Yeah, easily.”

  Lanigan leaned back in his chair and studied her. Finally, he said, “And when you were finished you offered to go to bed with him in payment, or was that understood from the beginning?”

  “No such thing.” She was quite indignant. “We just went to bed. Not in payment, but because he was—well—nice. He’s awfully young, of course, but he’s good-looking, and well—nice.”

  “I see. So then the next morning …”

  “We got up, and there was some orange juice in the fridge, and he made some coffee and toast, and we went off to school.”

  “You went out to the car together?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The car was locked?”

  Again her brow furrowed as she tried to remember. “Yeah, that’s right, I went around to the passenger’s side and waited until he got in and reached over to open the door for me. Then he took off this hook he has on the steering wheel, and we started off.”

  “I see. Now, what made you come in today?”

  She looked her obvious surprise. “Well when I heard … Naturally, I had to come and tell someone—”

  “Did he ask you to?”

  “Oh no. He was upset when I told him I was going to. He didn’t want me to. He was like embarrassed. You know, he’s awfully young.”

  Chief Lanigan pursed his lips as he thought about the situation. What did he actually have? The girl’s story, which she could have cooked up with Paul Kramer. After all, they were fellow students and, by her own admission, lovers.

  Lanigan got up and went over to the town map, which was pinned on the wall. He studied it for a moment and then pointed. “Here’s Elm Street. And you live right about here if I remember.”

  “Yeah, near Laurel Street.”

  “And you left your house at …?”

  “Around eight o’clock.”

  “And you walked down Laurel to Maple—”

  “No. I went down Elm to Main, and then turned up Main to Maple.”

  “Why did you go all the way around when you could have gone to the Kramer house directly by walking up Laurel?”

  She made a moue of annoyance at his stupidity. “Beth lives on Gaithskille Circle, so I had to go in that direction, didn’t I?”

  “I see. Well, did you meet anyone you know? Did you stop to talk to anyone?”

  She thought for a moment, and then shook her head vigorously so that her earrings jangled. “No.”

  Lanigan nodded. “Then no one knew you were at the Kramer house that night.”

  “Well, Beth McAllister knew,” she said.

  “Not really. All she had was a telephone number which she had no occasion to use. Your mother didn’t know, and no one saw you go in, or come out the next morning?”

  Again she shook her head and then added with a little lascivious smile, “Well, Paul knew.”

  “Yeah, I guess he’d know. All right. I might have you come in to make a statement which I’d have typed up and you could sign.”

  “Oh! Would my mother get to know about it?”

  “It depends. She might.”

  “Because I wouldn’t want her to. I mean—well, you know what I mean. On the other hand, I don’t want Paul to go to jail or anything, when he didn’t do it. I mean, that’s good citizenship, isn’t it?”

  33

  Although Magnuson had said he would speak to Rabbi Small as a matter of courtesy, in back of his mind he had the thought that the rabbi would probably agree to perform the ceremony. In his short acquaintance he had found Rabbi Small to be a reasonable man. He had done him a favor, an unsolicited favor, in getting him a sizable salary increase. And the rabbi knew it. Well then … In Magnuson’s code, if you did someone a favor, he owed you one. In accepting a favor, one incurred an obligation, a debt, and anyone who failed to make good was an ingrate and no gentleman.

  So when he came to see the rabbi, it was with full expectation of success, and he assumed the discussion would be on matters of detail. “I have something of a problem,” he began.

  “If I can be of any help …”

  “My daughter is getting married—”

  “Oh, mazel tov! When is it planned for? Is it a local boy?”

  “Yes, he’s local all right—”

  “The reason I ask,” the rabbi went on, “is because if at all possible, I like to see both the prospective bride and groom—”

  “He’s the Republican nominee for state senator from this district.”

  “But, that’s—”

  “John Scofield,” Magnuson supplied.

  It came to the rabbi that this was why Lanigan expected Jews to be pushing for Scofield. But quietly all he said was, “I didn’t realize he was Jewish.”

  “He’s not.”

  “Ah, I see. He’s planning to convert.”

  “I’m afraid not, Rabbi. Conversion is out of the question.”

  The rabbi was silent for a moment. “Then you’re planning a civil ceremony?” he asked quietly.

  “Laura insists on having the ceremony performed by a rabbi. I realize you can’t do it in the temple,” he went on hurriedly, “but as a matter of fact, from the beginning we planned on having it in the house, or in our garden if the weather is right.”

  “It can’t be done at all,” said the rabbi flatly.

  “You mean—”

  “I mean that if it’s a religious wedding, then it has to be between two Jews. If one of the principals is not Jewish, then you can no more have a religious wedding, a Jewish religious wedding, than if both were non-Jews. It’s a contradiction in terms.”

  “But—but—look here, Rabbi, I know it’s religion and religion is important. But when a couple comes to see you about getting married, do you question them about their beliefs and practices, or do you say, ‘Ah, congratulations, Mr. Goldstein and Miss Cohen. When do you plan to have the wedding? Will you be using the vestry?’ And yet they might both be out-and-out atheists.”

  “True.”

  “Then—”

  The rabbi sighed. “It’s most unfortunate that outsiders, especially our worst enemies, seem to have a better understanding of the situation than do many Jews. At least they realize that it is a matter of ethnicity; that a Jew is a Jew, even if he never sets foot in a synagogue. We are a tribe, a family, if you will, the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. In some primitive tribes, marriage is always with someone outside the tribe. Exogamy, the anthropologists call it. Among other tribes, the practice is to marry only within the tribe. Endogamy. Well, we are endogamous. That is the tradition, the practice, the law of our tribe. Because we believe that we—as a tribe, mind you—entered into a compact with God. The requirement of this contract on our side is that we practice Judaism, our religion. When one of us marries an outsider, we require not only that he undertake to join with us in keeping our part of the bargain, but also that he become one of us—by adoption into the tribe.

  “Judaism is a system of morals and ethics as well as of ceremonials, rituals, and liturgical practices, which are intended primarily to fortify us in the practice of our ethical code. The basis of this ethical code is the commandments given us by God, the result of our compact with Him at Sinai. Some Jews obey these commandments to the letter”—he smiled—“religiously, you might say. And some obey some of them and some pay no attention to them at all. But the obligation is there.

  “There are also some Gentiles who obey them, but that does not make them Jews. They come by them in a different way. Perhaps they have worked them out as leading to a good life, or because they consider them sensible. But because they have worked them out on their own, they can also change them. We can’t because we have made a contract with God, and these are the terms that we accepted. When you make a business contract with someone and he fails to carry out all the terms of the contract, that doesn’t mean that the contract is nullified, only that he is in default. And
when it is with a group, a corporation, rather than an individual, it isn’t abrogated when one member of the group leaves.

  “A Catholic who does not believe in the tenets of his church and does not practice them, is not a Catholic. But a Jew who does not obey the commandments and never enters a synagogue, is still a Jew. And he might marry the daughter of the Chief Rabbi of Israel. The rabbi wouldn’t like it, perhaps. He might try to prevent it. He might even disown his daughter, but he would not mourn her as dead, as he would if she were to marry a Gentile.”

  Magnuson shook his head. “I don’t understand you, Rabbi. You’d rather have her undergo a civil marriage—”

  “I’d rather have her marry a Jew.”

  “I know, but in the context of the present situation, does it have to be a civil marriage? And the children, I presume, would be—according to Jewish law—bastards?”

  “Oh no.” The rabbi was shocked. “The children would be Jews, since they would be the children of a Jewish mother. Not if it were the other way around, you understand. That is, not if the father were Jewish and the mother Gentile. Then they would be Gentile, even if they were brought up as Jews and were most observant. As a matter of fact, even if there were no marriage at all, they wouldn’t be bastards, according to Jewish law. Only the issue of adultery or incest are.”

  “Well, in my case, it’s out of the question. Laura is determined to be married by a rabbi. I don’t understand you. Isn’t half a loaf better than none?”

  “Your half a loaf is like being a little bit pregnant,” said the rabbi. “I could not participate in the wedding ceremony.”

  “I suspect that not all rabbis feel as you do,” said Magnuson.

  “No Orthodox or Conservative rabbi would perform the ceremony. I’ve heard that some Reform rabbis do, but none that I know of around here.”

  “I’m sure that I can find one who will,” said Magnuson grimly, “even if I have to bring him here from some distance. What else can I do?”

  “You can resign,” said the rabbi quietly.

  “Resign?”

  “As president of the synagogue,” said the rabbi firmly.