One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross (19 page)

“You mean, he says he's from Barnard's Crossing, and you don't believe him?” asked Miriam. “Did he say he knew us?”

The rabbi smiled. “No, Miriam, if this man were available, I'm sure Mr. Adoumi would not have shown us a photograph, and he would already have asked him if he knew us. If he had, he wouldn't have been so disappointed when we failed to recognize him.”

Adoumi grinned. “Then what would I have done, Rabbi?”

“If it were someone who claimed to be from our town, and you were in doubt, I think you would arrange for us to meet him and talk with him, to ask him questions about people and places and customs of the town to see if he really had lived in the town. Who is he, anyhow?”

Adoumi nodded slowly. He sighed. Finally, speaking very slowly, he said, “A man is missing. He was staying at the Excelsior. He had breakfast Sunday morning. Monday, the chambermaid reported that his bed had not been slept in. The security guard checked the room. Sometimes it is a case of someone trying to skip out without paying his hotel bill. You find a worthless old suitcase full of rags and weighted down with a couple of stones, perhaps. Then they call the police. But when all his effects are there, they call us. All we know about this man is that he registered as Professor Grenish of Barnard's Crossing.”

“You mean, if he's just absent one night?” asked Miriam. “He could have met relatives who insisted he stay over, or—”

“Yes, quite possible,” said Adoumi. “But Grenish has been gone since Sunday.”

“But you have a photograph, and it doesn't look like a copy of his passport photo. These usually give just head and shoulders—and they have the State Department seal impressed over the picture.”

Adoumi nodded approvingly. “That's right. This is the photo of a body that turned up with no identification. We thought it was just possible that it was the same man. Of course, we could televise it to the States, to the police department of your town. Or we could ask them to see if they could send us a picture of Grenish, by going to his house, perhaps. But that would take a lot of time. I thought if you people knew him, or even if you remembered having seen him occasionally, that would not be positive identification, of course, but it would be enough for us to go on. If I thought there were others in the country from Barnard's Crossing—”

“But there are,” said Miriam. “The Levinsons. They called us. They rented a car and are touring, but they said they might drop in on us tomorrow night, perhaps. And next week there'll be a whole busload on a tour, you know.”

“Ah, Levinson, you say?” Adoumi got out his notebook. “And where are they staying?”

“They didn't say. I asked, but Sheila—I spoke to the wife—was rather vague, so I gathered they might be staying with friends. They are not very good friends of ours, so perhaps she didn't want us calling if they couldn't make it. It was a duty call she was making, you understand.”

“Since they rented the car, I imagine you would be able to trace it and locate them,” suggested the rabbi.

“Of course,” Adoumi agreed, “but it might take several days. I'll tell you what. Suppose I leave this photograph with you, and if they call, you can show it to them. Then, if they recognize the man, you can let me know. It's curious. The man is a professor. I would think a professor in a town the size of yours would be well known.”

The rabbi smiled. “We are about a half hour by car from both Boston and Cambridge. In Cambridge are both Harvard and MIT. In Boston there are a number of colleges—Boston University, Boston College, Northeastern, Suffolk. Both cities are full of students, and that makes a quiet place like Barnard's Crossing highly desirable as a place to live for their teachers.”

“I suppose so,” said Adoumi, his face showing obvious disappointment. “I don't know where Grenish teaches—”

“Grenish? His name is Grenish, is it?” The rabbi smiled broadly. “Then I can tell you how you can identify him. A friend of mine, someone I see at the minyan I attend, works at the Hotel Excelsior. Was it from there he was missing?”

“And he spoke to him?” Adoumi made no effort to conceal his interest and excitement.

“Well, I don't know that he spoke to him. I think he said that he was about to when the manager called him to the front desk. But you see, my friend's wife's family name was Grenitz, and he thought Grenish might be an Americanization of the name, so—”

“And your friend's name is …?”

“Perlmutter, Aharon Perlmutter.”

But Adoumi had been fingering his notebook. “Yes, here it is. Breakfast checker at the dining room.” He shook his head. “He saw the photograph. He was unable to identify him.”

“Then it's not the man,” said the rabbi.

Adoumi smiled wanly. “Or, more likely, he didn't get a good look at him.” He closed his notebook and put it back in his pocket.

He was so obviously disappointed that Miriam was led to suggest, “How about the Goodman boy, David?”

The rabbi shook his head. “No, he left Barnard's Crossing some years ago, and he was only in town for a short while before that. His folks are from Salem, you remember.”

“And this Goodman, who is he?” asked Adoumi.

“He's a student at the American Yeshiva in Abu Tor,” said Miriam. “His folks asked David to look him up.”

“The American Yeshiva in Abu Tor, eh? That's very interesting. I'll go and see him.”

27

There was no question that it was merely a courtesy call. Indeed, Sheila Levinson had demurred. “Do we have to? We're only going to be in the city a few days—”

“Yeah, but how can I go to a foreign country six thousand miles away and there's a guy from my hometown living practically next door to my hotel and I shouldn't give him a call and drop in on him for a cup of tea, especially where the country in question is Israel and the guy is the rabbi of my temple back home? I mean,” Ira Levinson went on, “how will it look when we get home and we tell people how we were so many days in Tel Aviv and so many days in Jerusalem, and they ask did we see the rabbi, and we say we didn't get around to it?”

“So all right, call him, but I don't see why we should have to waste an evening and go and see him.”

“I tell you what. I'll call him, and if he asks to see us, I'll say okay, and then later I can call and say something has come up and we won't be able to make it.”

He had called while they were still in Tel Aviv, and in response to Miriam's invitation to drop in Wednesday night, the day after they reached Jerusalem, he had readily agreed. Then according to plan, around six o'clock in the evening, Sheila had called and said, “Oh, Miriam, Sheila Levinson. About tonight …”

“Yes, we're expecting you.”

“Well, something has come up, and I don't think we can make it.”

“Oh, can't you possibly? If only for a few minutes? There's something we want to show you.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, I don't think I can tell you over the phone, but it's quite important.”

Torn by curiosity, Sheila Levinson agreed, but hedged by saying that they might be able to stay only a few minutes, and was strangely disappointed when Miriam said, “Oh, that's all right. We'll expect you around eight.”

“What do you suppose it is?” she asked her husband, who had been at her elbow as she phoned.

“I don't know. It could be they bought something for the temple. Maybe a crown or a breastplate for one of the scrolls. And they're worried that the Board might kick about buying it from them. So maybe they want to get some backing from us. And maybe it's a big-ticket item, they hope the Sisterhood might undertake to spring for it if the Board doesn't.”

“You know, Ira, I think you're right. So let's be cool about it when they show it to us. I mean, we can say it's nice without getting all enthused, if you know what I mean.”

And because they were determined to be cool about it and wanted to avoid any suspicion of great interest, they did not inquire about what it was the rabbi had to show them, but talked of their trip, of the sights they had seen, and about the impressions they had formed.

As they sipped tea and nibbled on cookies, they asked the Smalls about their own manner of living in Jerusalem. “I suppose you go to the Wall for morning prayers every day, Rabbi,” suggested Ira Levinson.

“No, it's a bit far.”

“He probably goes to that big place, you know, the Great Synagogue, what do they call it?” Sheila offered.

“The Hechel Shlomo,” the rabbi supplied. “No, I don't go there, either. It's also a little distance from here. There are a dozen places where they have a minyan within a stone's throw. I go to one of those.”

It was obvious to all that they were merely making talk and that the two couples had no interest in each other. Finally Ira Levinson said, “There was something you wanted to show us, Rabbi?”

“Oh, yes.” From his pocket, the rabbi drew the photograph Adoumi had left with him and put it down on the table before them.

Mystified, the Levinsons looked at the photograph and then at each other and then at the rabbi. “That's it?”

“M-hm.”

“I don't get it.”

“Do you know him? Have you ever seen him?”

A slow shaking of heads. “We haven't been in the country very long. And in hotels most of the time—”

“No, someone from Barnard's Crossing,” said the rabbi.

They both studied the photograph again. “It looks a little like Fred Stromberg,” suggested Sheila.

“No, Fred is a lot thinner, and he's got this long nose.” He looked at the rabbi inquiringly.

The rabbi felt it necessary to explain. “A friend of Gittel's”—he nodded in her direction—“is a high official in the security—”

“David! These are matters one does not talk about,” said Gittel sharply. Except for acknowledgment of the original introduction, she had been silent until now. The Levinsons had assumed she did not speak English.

The rabbi nodded. “All right. Let's say a man who claimed to be from Barnard's Crossing is missing. It is thought it might be this man. Under the impression that Barnard's Crossing is a small village where everyone would know everyone else, Gittel's friend brought this photo to us.”

“Village? Over twenty thousand,” said Ira.

“Precisely. It's the name, I suppose. People are apt to confuse it with ‘crossroads' and assume it's just a village for that reason.”

“Yeah, I've known people in the States to make the same mistake.”

“You don't have to know the man,” the rabbi urged, “just remember having seen him back in Barnard's Crossing.”

“It could be—” Sheila began.

“No, it couldn't,” said her husband decisively. “Sorry we can't help you out, Rabbi, or your friend. We'll have to be running along now.” At the door, he said, “It occurs to me Louis Goodman's boy is in a yeshiva here. We were planning to drop in on him. Louis and Rose asked us to. He might recognize your man.”

“Yes,” said the rabbi. “I thought of him. I mentioned him to Gittel's friend.”

Once outside, Sheila said to her husband, “Why did you cut me off when I was going to suggest—”

“Because I didn't want for us to get involved. That's why. The rabbi began to talk about a high official in security who was a friend of the old lady's. And she cut him off; told him these matters he was not supposed to talk about. So that means it was some sort of police matter, or maybe even something the Israeli secret service is involved in. For all we know, that guy whose picture he showed us might be a spy. We could be kept here—who knows, an extra week or even two while agents would grill us. Maybe even whisked around the country from place to place to look at this guy or his pals through a peephole or one of those one-way mirrors. And if he is a spy, and it got out that we identified him, how about his Arab or Russian pals or whoever? You want to avoid grief, you keep your nose clean.”

Back in the apartment, as Miriam removed the tea things from the table, Gittel said, “These people, David, they don't like you. I could see that almost from the minute they came in.”

The rabbi nodded. “No, I don't think they do.”

28

To Uri Adoumi's request to see Jordan Goodman, Joseph Kahn interposed no impediment. Instead, having seen his credentials, he escorted him to the visitors' room and said he would send the young man down immediately.

On being informed that there was a policeman waiting to see him, Ish-Tov was understandably nervous. Someone must have seen him filling in the trench. What else could it be? And even before he entered the room, he had already begun to plan his defense. His friend who was a Kohane had a terrible fear that an ancient cemetery had been dug up, and out of consideration for him …

Although he could see that the young man was nervous by the way he crossed and uncrossed his legs and the way he fumbled with a wrinkled package of cigarettes, Adoumi did not take this as a sign of guilt. People were always nervous when the police came to question them. He tried to put him at ease. He offered him a light, lit his own cigarette, and then said, “You are from Barnard's Crossing in Massachusetts?”

“Yes—well, sort of. I mean, I haven't been there for some time.” Perhaps it was his airline ticket they were concerned about. “My folks live there, but I was living out West mostly the past few years. I mean, how do you know I come from Barnard's Crossing?”

“A Rabbi David Small told me.”

“Oh. Yeah, he was here the other day to see me.”

Adoumi drew the photograph from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Do you know this man? Have you ever seen him in Barnard's Crossing?”

The young man's face relaxed in a slow grin. “It looks like an old prof of mine, name of Grenish.”