That Day the Rabbi Left Town (7 page)

“The administrators soon realized that the power and the prestige, and the endowments and grants, too, came not from teaching, but from research, with the result that appointment to a college faculty was not on the basis of the ability or even the desire to transmit one's knowledge to the student, but rather on one's capacity for research as proved by the articles one had published in learned journals. ‘Publish or perish.'

“It wouldn't be so bad if the research resulted in finding something worth knowing. But when you do research because you have to, you end up only with something that can be published in a learned journal—and the number of those has increased enormously—which ho one will read. Like Ph.D. dissertations, they have to be original, and that means in the humanities, at least, these days you have to write about people or things that generations of scholars before you didn't consider worth writing about. All the important, worthwhile subjects had already been covered. Imagine spending two, three years, or more, of your life working on the life and writings of some poetaster who managed to get a slim volume of poetry published because his father-in-law was in the printing business.” He shook his head in disbelief as he sucked on his pipe.

“Ever hear of Simeon Suggs?” he asked; sitting up straight and removing his pipe from his mouth.

“Simeon Suggs?” asked the rabbi politely. “No, I can't say that I have.”

“Neither had I,” said Cardleigh, “and I always thought I had a pretty good knowledge of English literature. Well, one of our people wrote his doctoral dissertation on him.”

He puffed at his pipe but drew no smoke. “Gone out,” he said. “One thing about a pipe: You can't talk and keep it lit. Maybe that's one of the benefits of smoking a pipe. If it were required of our congressmen, we might have a more efficient government. Well, have a good year, Rabbi, and if you need anything, come and see me.”

He glanced at his watch and said, “Why, it's almost eleven. You were planning on coming to the faculty meeting, weren't you? Come along then.” He extricated himself from behind his desk and came around to the rabbi, who had risen. Putting his arm across his shoulder, he propelled him to the door.

The meeting was being held in a large hall on the first floor. It was immediately apparent to the rabbi that not all the faculty were there. He looked around for someone he might know; one or two looked vaguely familiar, but they showed no sign of recognition when they saw him, so he did not approach them, reflecting that they were probably people he had seen in the corridors, or perhaps in the faculty cafeteria when he had gone there for an occasional cup of coffee when he was last at Windermere years ago. He looked around for Roger Fine, the one faculty member he did know, but Fine evidently had decided not to attend.

Although some were seated, most were standing around in small groups, chatting about how they had spent the summer, or of conferences they had attended. When Dr. Cardleigh ascended the platform at the end of the hall, many of those standing took seats. He came forward to the lectern in front of the platform and said, “All right, ladies and gentlemen, please take seats so we can proceed. I asked to have a copy of the catalog placed on each seat, but I've got a pile up here if any of you missed out on one. The new catalogs won't be delivered for at least a week, I understand, so it's important with registration tomorrow that you be informed of the changes that have been made. If you'll turn to page eleven, you will note that Freshman English is no longer required of all freshmen. Those with a B or better average in English in their senior year in high school are exempt.”

“But can they take it if they want to?”

“Yes.”

“For credit?”

“Certainly. Any more—er—questions?”

The rabbi sensed that he had almost said “foolish questions.” A white-haired man sitting in the first row rose and held up his hand.

“Yes, Professor Kent?”

“I think, Dr. Cardleigh, that because this change is so radical a departure from collegiate tradition and practice, the rationale for it should be explained. I am prepared at this time—”

“Yes, yes, Professor, but I'm afraid we don't have time for it right now,” said Cardleigh. “Not if we are planning to have lunch at the usual time. Anyone who objects to the change can see Professor Kent, or the head of the department, Professor Sugrue, and discuss it with him.”

“Very well,” said Kent stiffly.

There was a chuckle or two, and someone behind the rabbi whispered to his neighbor, “Cardleigh is the only one who stands up to him.”

“Now if you'll turn to page fifteen,” the dean went on, “please note that Professor Haynes will be on sabbatical this year. His course will be taught by Professor Blanchard.”

It went on until they had worked their way through the entire catalog. Then Cardleigh read a list of those who had been dropped, which included two instructors who had taught Freshman English and who were no longer needed since the course was no longer required.

Then Cardleigh announced the new members of the faculty, and each in turn rose and received a scattering of applause. When it came Rabbi Small's turn, Cardleigh said, “Rabbi Small taught here a few years ago. He is now back to head up the new Department of Judaica. This semester he will give one course in Judaic Philosophy, which comes Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at eleven. He will also be in his office, the former Freshman English office, for several hours every day for those who might wish to consult him. A word of warning to student advisers who have to approve student programs: Rabbi Small's course will not be a snap course. As he demonstrated when he was last here, students in his course are expected to work, and to work hard.”

The meeting adjourned shortly afterward and all trooped out to go to the cafeteria. The rabbi, however, chose to go home since he was certain there would be little there that he could eat. This time he used the State Road and it took him just an hour. He decided that henceforth he would use the old Boston Road even though it took longer. It was a pleasanter drive and traffic was far less.

Chapter 10

Wednesday morning found Rabbi Small on the platform of the Swampscott train station, ready to board the 8:02 train to Boston's North station, where he would take the subway to Windermere for his first day of teaching. True, his class was scheduled for eleven o'clock, but on this the first day, he felt it was somehow only proper to arrive at the start of the school day.

On the few occasions when he had gone into Boston by train, he had gone either late in the morning or early in the afternoon; never during the rush hour. So he was surprised at the crowd on the platform, and when the train pulled in, he was even more surprised to find that all seats had already been taken—most had got on at Salem, the previous stop—and that he would have to stand. When the train had stopped, the steps of one of the cars was immediately in front of him so that he was among the first to board, but those behind pushed him forward until he found himself jammed in the middle of the car by those who had got on at the other end.

The conductor moved ever so slowly through the car, hampered by the tightly packed passengers. He was short and fat, and every now and then he removed his cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, and this made his progress even slower. The conductor at the other end of the car had stopped to talk to a passenger, so when the train finally pulled into North station at 8:27, the rabbi's ticket had not yet been collected. The conductor was now on the platform, and as the rabbi approached he was going to give him his ticket, but the conductor reached behind him to help an elderly woman out of the car, and the rabbi decided to go with the flow of pedestrian traffic. He was a little bothered at not having paid his fare, but then reflected that perhaps it was recompense for his discomfort in having to stand all the way. At North station, where the trip ended, he took a streetcar to Kenmore Square.

As he emerged from the subway station at Kenmore Square, he was hailed by a young man who looked vaguely familiar. “I don't suppose you remember me, Rabbi,” he said. “I was introduced to you at a Friday evening service by Mr. Lerner, who—”

“Oh yes, you're Mr.—er—”

“Jacobs. Mordecai Jacobs.”

“Of course. You're going to marry Clara Lerner, and your future father-in-law got me to agree to perform the ceremony. I tried to dissuade him, but—”

“Why would you want to dissuade him?”

“Well, for one thing, his reason for wanting me to do it was that I had married him and Mrs. Lerner, and because their marriage was successful …”

“Yeah, that is kind of silly.”

“But mostly it was because the wedding was going to take place in Barnard's Crossing, and since I was leaving, there would be another rabbi in charge, and I would thereby be invading his turf, so to speak.”

“Oh, I see.”

The rabbi smiled. “But now that we are colleagues, I have a more legitimate reason for performing the ceremony, and one that I'm sure Rabbi Selig will understand.”

“Well, that's fine then. You going to continue living in Barnard's Crossing? I saw you coming out of the subway, so I guess you must have come in by train or bus today. Is that what you're planning on? Coming in by public transport every day?”

“No, I was planning to drive in most days. But I thought today I'd take the train to avoid the rush-hour traffic. I won't be coming in so early most of the time. My class doesn't meet until eleven. It's just that I thought the first day I ought to come in at the start of classes. I had no idea the train would be so crowded. The conductor didn't even get around to collecting my ticket.”

“Yes, it's happened to me on one or two occasions. See, I go to the Lerners' for the weekend, so I have to take the train in Monday morning. It's a drag. You ought to have a pied-à-terre here in the city in case of bad weather during the winter.”

“I suppose—”

“Look, Rabbi, I live in Brookline on Beacon Street. It's a big apartment house, nothing fancy, but comfortable. A lot of the folks go down to Florida for the winter, and some of them let their apartments for the winter months. It's right around the corner from Harvard Street, where there's a kosher butcher shop and a synagogue, and it's just across the street from the car stop. And usually the rent isn't very high, I understand, because people don't like to leave their apartments unprotected. Someone living in the apartment is like a caretaker. I was talking to one of the tenants just the other day—”

“It's certainly worth considering.”

“Look, if you like, I'll keep my ears open and let you know if I hear of anything.”

The rabbi smiled. “I like. I'd appreciate it.”

Chapter 11

The office that had previously been occupied by half a dozen instructors of Freshman English was large as college offices go. It contained four desks and a couple of tables, all of them old and scarred by years of usage. The rabbi surveyed the room and its furniture and then selected the desk next to a window, which had the most comfortable-looking chair behind it, as his own. It was a large leather chair with a tufted back that tilted when he leaned back, and that could swivel from side to side. The drawers of the desk, he noted with satisfaction, were empty and relatively clean.

The door opened and a young woman, under thirty, came in. She was thin and small with a narrow, freckled face and reddish-blond hair. “Oh, I didn't know there was anyone in here, or I would have knocked,” she said.

“Quite all right.”

“You must be the rabbi who is going to head up the new Judaica Department.”

“I am Rabbi Small, David Small.”

“Do I call you Rabbi Small or Professor Small?”

“I'll answer to either one,” he said, smiling.

“I'm Sarah McBride, English Department.” She pointed to a desk on the other side of the room. “I used that desk last year. I left some papers in the top drawer. Maybe they're still there.”

“I think everything was brought upstairs to the English office,” he offered, “but take a look.”

She strode to the desk and pulled out the drawer. “Nope. Gone. They're probably upstairs as you say.” She leaned back on the desk, facing him. “You going to have a big department?”

The rabbi shrugged. “It will depend on how much interest there is in the field. I'm starting with just me. I'm giving one course this year and I expect it will be small enough to meet in the office here, around a table, seminar style, perhaps. It will be an introductory course—”

“When does it come?”

“It's scheduled for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at eleven.”

“I'm free at eleven. Would you mind if I were to audit your course?”

“Not at all. Happy to have you. Sarah McBride.” He savored the name and smiled. “Not Jewish, I presume.”

She smiled. “No, not Jewish. Maybe quite the opposite.”

“What do you mean that you're opposite to being Jewish?” asked the rabbi, puzzled.

“Anti-Semitic.” She smiled impishly.

“And you want to audit my course …”

“To find out why,” she replied promptly.

“I don't understand.”

“Well, you see, I married one.”

“You married a Jew?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And now you're separated? Divorced?”

She shook her head. “No, still happily married.”

“You were married by a rabbi? A priest? A minister?”

“None of the above. By a justice of the peace. According to Lew, no rabbi would marry us unless I converted, and he was sure a priest would also demand all kinds of conditions, so …”

“It bothered you?”

“Not really. You see, we were in a relationship to begin with.”

“You mean you were living together?”