That Day the Rabbi Left Town (4 page)

“Point of order.” It was Ira Schwarz, a stickler for regulations.

Bergson sighed. “Yes, Ira, what's your point of order?”

“Well, looks to me that you're going to give the committee report as the chairman,
ex officio
.”

“And you don't think I should because I'm
ex officio
?”

“Oh, that's all right. But giving a committee report is like—like making a motion. So I think you should hand over the gavel to the vice-president. Then when he recognizes you, you make your report.”

“But I don't have a gavel,” said Bergson with a smile. “I just rap on the desk with my knuckles. So should I give him my hand to hold while I'm making my report?”

There was general laughter, but Ira Schwarz was obstinate. “You know what I mean. You can run the meeting according to Robert's Rules, or you can operate with no rules at all and anybody can talk anytime he wants to and bring up any subject that comes into his mind, whether it's Old Business or New Business or—or anything at all.”

“You're perfectly right, Ira. So I am now asking the vice-president to take the chair. Mr. Chairman, may I give the report of the committee on its work in selecting a new rabbi?”

“You may proceed, Mr. Bergson.”

“All right. So as I started to say, we're not far from Boston, and besides, we're on the seashore, which means this is as good a place as any to be in a hot summer, and—”

“Okay, okay,” said Dr. Marcus, who was a dentist and so not used to being answered at length. “I get the picture.”

“Well,” Bergson continued, “we finally came up with a short list of three. One or more members of the committee thought that each of the three was the best of the lot. All three came down here to conduct a Sabbath, so you all had a good look at them. Let's see, first we have Rabbi Alan Joseph from Paterson, New Jersey. Archie favors him. He's—”

“He's the one that used all those big words,” said Joe Brickner. “I couldn't understand what he was talking about, something about metempsychosis. I had to look it up in the dictionary when I got home.”

“Yeah, my wife thought he was awfully deep,” said another. “That's because she didn't know what he was talking about either, all this stuff about Martin Buber and Kierkegaard.”

“That's the trouble with us Jews: If we don't understand something, we think it's deep.”

“Did you know what he was talking about, Archie?”

“Aw, you guys can't recognize class when you see it,” Archie retorted, but he made no attempt to argue the point.

“Attaboy, Archie.”

“You tell 'em, Archie.”

“All right, boys, let's settle down,” said Bergson. “Then there's Rabbi Benjamin Cohen of Temple Beth Emeth in New Britain, Connecticut. He's thirty-eight. He comes from an Orthodox family and has been observant all his life. He was top man in his class at the Seminary and is a real Talmud scholar. His sermon, if you remember, was a regular
drusha
, a dissertation, which is what a rabbi's sermon is supposed to be.”

“One of the things that bothers me about Cohen,” said Joe Brickner, “is that with the name Cohen, he must be a Kohane, a priest. Right? And as I understand it, they're not supposed to go to a cemetery or be in the presence of a dead body. So what happens when, God forbid, somebody dies? I mean does he do the burial service, or does he have to arrange for a substitute?”

“Oh, his being a Kohane wouldn't interfere with his doing a burial service for us,” said Bergson. “It just means that he's not supposed to
duchan
for a year, you know, join with the other priests to bless the congregation at the end of the service. We've abolished the blessing by the priests. Only the Orthodox do that. So it wouldn't affect us.”

“What do you mean the priests bless the congregation at the end of the service? You mean all the guys named Cohen get up and bless the congregation?”

“Good Lord! You mean you've never seen the Kohanim performing their ritual duty?” Bob Kahn was incredulous. “Didn't you ever go to
shul
, I mean when you were a kid?”

“We went to Temple Israel in Boston. That's the big Reform temple. What do they do?”

“Yeah, I've never seen it either.”

“Yeah, what happens?”

“Well, towards the end of the service,” Kahn explained, “and that's a holiday service only, the Kohanim, the priests, that is, the descendants of Aaron, leave the sanctuary and go and have their hands washed by the Levites.”

“These priests are guys named Cohen?”

“Or Kahn, or Kane, or Katz, or Kagan, or any other name for that matter, but they're all supposed to be descendants of Aaron.”

“And the Levites are guys named Levy?”

“Uh-huh, or Levine, or Segal, or whatever. They are supposed to be of the tribe of Levy. Well, after the Kohanim have their hands washed, they take off their shoes and go up in front of the Ark. Then they cover their heads and their upraised arms with their prayer shawls and turn towards the congregation. And then they pronounce the priestly blessing, repeating it after the cantor one word at a time. ‘May the Lord bless you and keep you. May He make His face to shine upon you—'”

“Hey, that's Christian. I've heard that in a church.”

“Sure, they took it from us.”

“Yeah? You one, Bob?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And did you ever, you know, bless the congregation?”

“No, but my old man used to all the time.”

“Pious, was he?”

“Not particularly. He ate kosher, of course, because that was what he was used to, but he used to work Saturdays. I remember once somebody asked him why he
duchaned
when he didn't observe the Sabbath, and he said he did it so the rabbi shouldn't.”

“I don't get it.”

Kahn shrugged, but Bergson sought to explain. “I guess what he meant was that if the Kohanim who are just ordinary members of the congregation didn't do it, then the rabbi might start doing it, and people would get to thinking that he was some sort of holy moly. You know, like a Protestant minister or a Catholic priest, and that's not what he's supposed to be. It's happened in some of the Reform temples and in some of the Conservative ones, too.”

“Well, I'm not worried about Rabbi Cohen not going to the cemetery,” said Henry Myers, “but we've got to keep in mind the PR aspect. In a small Yankee town like Barnard's Crossing, the PR aspect of the rabbi can be very important.

“That was a pretty good sermon he gave the Friday night he was here, but I couldn't help thinking that Rabbi Cohen was not too prepossessing physically. He's short and fat and bald and he seemed to be sweating a lot.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. His head was glistening. It bothered me, too. On the other hand, Rabbi Dana Selig—now, he makes a real good impression. He's tall and he's what my daughter calls ‘a hunk.' What's more, according to his resume, he played football when he was in college. Believe me, that won't hurt us with the Gentiles.”

“Joe and Ira favored him,” Bergson admitted. “And I guess he made a good impression when he came to do a Sabbath for us, but he doesn't have much of a background.”

“What's that supposed to mean? He graduated from the Seminary, didn't he?”

“Sure, but his folks are Reform and nonpracticing at that, so all he knows is what he got at the Seminary. I mean, it isn't as though he grew up in it.” He looked around the room for some indication of understanding. There was no response, so he went on, “And we've also got to take into consideration his wife.”

That did evoke a response. “What's the matter with his wife? She's a very attractive woman.”

“Well, when he was first interviewed by the committee, he made it plain that his wife was no part of the deal; that we were not to expect her to play the part of the traditional rebbetzin because she had her own interests.”

“She's a lawyer, isn't she?” asked Dr. Marcus.

“That's right.”

“Well, look, you've got to expect that these days,” said Marcus. “I mean all the women are apt to have interests different from their husbands. My wife is an architect, for instance. Maybe thirty, forty years ago when the professions weren't open to them, their interests were the same as their husbands'. So my Sybil would have been the receptionist in my office, or maybe she'd have taken some courses and become my dental hygienist. But these days …” He raised his shoulders and then let them drop in resignation.

As the discussion continued, it was evident that the majority by far favored Rabbi Selig. The desultory criticism continued, however; it was normal at Board meetings. One objected that Rabbi Selig had a beard.

“But he keeps it trimmed. It's not a hippie beard. Strictly speaking, a rabbi is supposed to have a beard.”

Another raised the question of his name. “What kind of name is Dana? Is this a name for a rabbi?”

“His Hebrew name is Daniel,” said Bergson. “I mean that's the name we'd use if he were called up to read a portion of the Torah.”

“Sure, Dana is just an American name like—er—Kevin or Hilary.”

“Did you get a look at his socks when he was sitting up on the bimah?”

“And that tie was pretty wild; for a rabbi, I mean.”

However, when the clock on the wall showed noon, their regular time of adjournment, Bergson rapped for order and said, “Okay, guys, let's put it to a vote.”

Chapter 6

The Hail and Farewell Dinner, which had been reduced to a lunch, and was finally downgraded to a bagels-and-lox brunch, turned out to be a lot more Hail than Farewell. A few came up to Rabbi Small to say they were sorry he was leaving and to wish him well in his new job. And a few came to talk to him about Windermere because they had a son or a daughter who had gone there, or was now attending, or had applied for admission. But as was only to be expected, most of the attention was directed to the new rabbi, a tall, handsome man with a carefully trimmed mustache and a short beard that covered only his chin.

The two rabbis had little chance to talk to each other. However, Rabbi Selig did manage to say that he and his wife would like to come to the Smalls' some afternoon to pay their respects, and Rabbi Small had said that any afternoon would do. “Have Mrs. Selig arrange it with Mrs. Small. But why not come to dinner some evening instead?”

They came to dinner a few days later. They had been living in a hotel in nearby Salem while looking for a more suitable residence, so Miriam asked, “Have you found a place yet?”

Rabbi Selig grinned broadly. “We're signing a lease for a year tomorrow, with an option to buy. It's furnished, but they'll move all their stuff out if we decide to buy. There's a lot of land, over an acre, we were told.”

“Mowing a lawn that size can be quite a chore,” Rabbi Small observed.

Selig laughed. “Not this lawn; it's all rock. Oh, there are small patches of earth here and there with low bushes or some grass. He's got one of those old-fashioned hand lawn mowers for the grassy bits. See, it's right near the coast—you can see the ocean from our windows in the back—and except for a few yards of sandy beach, the whole area is rock. The road to Boston runs by the front of the house. In fact, there's a bus stop right at the driveway that leads up to the house, which I figure could be handy if I wanted to go into Boston and not have to worry about finding a place to park. The driveway is pretty steep. See, we're on a level patch on a hill, and the driveway ends up as a sort of terrace on the side where the entrance to the garage is. It's all asphalt and I'll have to keep it clear during the winter, I suppose, because driving up that hill might be tough if there's snow on the ground. But he's got a snowblower, so it shouldn't take long to clear it.”

“Dana can't wait for it to snow so he can try it out,” his wife remarked fondly.

Rabbi Selig grinned. “Yeah, I do like to fool around with tools and machines.”

“Oh, I think I know where the house is,” said Miriam. “It's right at the boundary between Barnard's Crossing and Swampscott. There's a sign there saying that you're now entering Barnard's Crossing.”

“That's right,” said Selig. “It's just beyond our, driveway, coming from Boston, but we're in Barnard's Crossing. I was told that the sign was put up beyond our driveway because our side is all rock. It was easier to put up the sign beyond us rather than on the actual boundary, where they would have had to blast. See, it's not the regular Highway Department sign; it's a billboard put up by the chamber of commerce which tells when the town was founded and then goes on to say that it's the birthplace of the American navy.”

“And there's a hedge running along the side, isn't there?” Miriam asked.

“That's right. And there's an electric hedge trimmer to take care of it. Which means what? An hour or two once a week during the summer.”

“The hedge, that's the boundary of the property?” asked Miriam.

“It actually extends a few feet beyond the hedge. Beyond that, the land is level and grassy, which means there is a drop of about twelve feet, almost vertical, opposite the house, which is why the hedge was planted in the first place, I suppose. This terrace by the side of the house has a badminton net strung across it. So I imagine if you ran back after a birdie, you could sustain a nasty fall.”

Susan Selig, a tall brunette of thirty-four, with hair gathered in a bun at the nape of the neck, was a couple of years older than her husband. When they finished eating, she insisted on helping Miriam with the dishes, and then remained in the kitchen with her so that they could talk more freely than they might in the presence of the men. In the living room the men settled back in their armchairs.

“You know, I think I'm going to like this congregation,” said Selig.