Wednesday the Rabbi Got Wet (2 page)

“And over this you quarreled? It was a good deed, a mitzvah. You were helping a sick person.”

“We didn’t fight over that. I’m just trying to give you an idea of how he felt about the store.” He smiled wanly. “That’s how I happened to oversleep that morning. If it was a mitzvah, I sure didn’t get any reward for it.”

“One doesn’t perform a mitzvah in the hope of reward. If one does, then it is no longer a mitzvah but a business transaction that you are trying to make with The Almighty, and one does not always recognize the reward when it comes.” He thoughtfully stroked his beard.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Akiva agreed moodily, staring down at his hands, then he looked up and tried once again. “He didn’t pay me what he’d have to pay a regular pharmacist, and I worked longer hours, that was because I was his son, he’d say, ‘The store is yours. In a few years I’ll step aside and you’ll take over the way I did from my father.’ Like it was a family tradition,” he added bitterly, “like a bank or a railroad or some big corporation. But it was only a small neighborhood drugstore, and if it was mine, how come he raised such a stink when I took some of what was mine?”

“This family tradition, you have no feeling for?”

The young man shook his head. “To me it’s just a job. If I go home, he’ll start in about carrying on the tradition and I’ll just fight with him again.”

Reb Mendel nodded his head slowly as he considered. Finally, he spoke, in tones that would brook no further argument. “This disagreement with your father, it bothers you. It is not something you can forget, and for that reason it is a psychological and spiritual infection that must be cured or it will spread and bring about your spiritual decay. Go home, Akiva. Go home.”

As Rabbi Small entered the basement chapel of the temple where the weekday services were held, he automatically made a head count, and then on the chance that one or more of the men might have stepped out for a cigarette, he asked hopefully, “Do we have ten? Are we a minyan?”

“No, Rabbi. You’re the ninth, but Chet Kaplan should be along any minute.”

It occurred to the rabbi that the religious renaissance Kaplan claimed for the congregation had so far not made it easier to gather a minyan, there was no problem evenings, but evidently the religious fervor was not yet strong enough to induce them to get up half an hour earlier to make the morning service.

As soon as he entered the temple, the rabbi had put on the black silk skullcap he kept in his pocket. Now he took off his jacket and unbuttoned and rolled up his left shirtsleeve, he took one of the narrow silk prayer shawls from the pile on the bench in the rear of the room, touched the two ends of its embroidered collar to his lips, and perfunctorily muttering the blessing, he draped it around his shoulders. From the small blue velvet bag he had brought with him he drew out his phylacteries, the little black boxes with their leather straps which contained strips of parchment inscribed with quotations from the Bible proclaiming that they were to serve as “reminders on your hand and on your forehead.., that with a mighty hand the Lord freed you from Egypt.” He began to put them on, first the hand box, strapped above the muscle of the left arm and hence next to the heart; then the head box, placed above the forehead next to the hairline, his lips moving as he recited to himself the appropriate blessings.

The others had similarly prepared themselves and were sitting in the middle of the room talking, mostly about Hurricane Betsy, which weather forecasters had been tracking for the last several days and which still might strike the Boston area. Irving Hovik, something of an amateur meteorologist, was explaining with wide gestures that”.., she can still turn in, she gains strength over the water and loses it over the land. So if she turns in and hits us head on, it can be bad, but if she hits south of here and then moves up the coast, she’ll lose a lot of her power, see? It depends on how much spin she’s got.”

Over to the side, at the end of the aisle and away from the rest, the rabbi noticed a tall young man whom he had not previously seen at the services. His blond hair was long and he had a heavy beard, he wore a blue denim jacket and blue jeans stuffed into leather boots. Instead of a narrow silk prayer shawl such as the others wore, he had a long woolen one that came down to his knees.

Just as the rabbi was about to welcome him, the young man grasped the edge of his woolen prayer shawl in either hand and, raising his arms, he crossed his hands in front of his face, thereby enclosing himself in a cylinder of cloth. It reminded the rabbi of his grandfather, who had been an Orthodox rabbi; just so, he used to momentarily shut out the world to organize his mind for prayer and communion with God, as he watched, the cylinder of white began to gyrate slowly from side to side in a kind of ecstasy. It crossed his mind – with a touch of regret? of annoyance? – that over the years his own recital of the blessings accompanying the putting on of the phylacteries and the prayer shawl had become more or less perfunctory.

Chester Kaplan, a short man of fifty with a round head and smiley face, came hurrying in, he shed his jacket on one of the back benches and rolled up his left shirtsleeve. “We got ten?” he asked.

“Yeah, now. You’re the tenth. Let’s get cracking.”

“Jeez, Chet, you know some of us poor slobs got jobs to go to.”

“I know. I know. I had trouble getting my car started.” He began to put on his phylacteries.

The young man lowered his prayer shawl and draped it once again about his shoulders, the rabbi came over and said, “I am Rabbi Small.”

The young man nodded and smiled. “Yes, I know.” He took the proffered hand and said, “I’m Akiva Rokeach.”

“Are you new in town, Mr. Rokeach?”

“I’m visiting for a few days.”

“Well, we’re happy to have you.” He looked about and smiled. “Without you, I guess we would not have had a minyan this morning.” Then he offered the traditional courtesy to the stranger. “Would you care to lead the prayers?”

Rokeach blushed. “No. I better not.”

Courtesy also forbade pressing anyone who refused, so the rabbi called out, “You want to lead, Chester?”

“Okay,” and Chester Kaplan took his place at the reading desk in front of the Ark. Throughout the service that followed, although the greater portion was murmured in undertones, the rabbi was able to hear his neighbor reciting the prayers, and he quickly understood that the reason the young man had refused his offer to lead was that his Hebrew was uncertain.

Since it was Wednesday and hence not one of the days on which the Scroll was read, the service was soon over, as the men removed their phylacteries and rolled up the straps, they resumed the conversations the service had interrupted.

Chester Kaplan came bustling up to the rabbi. Confidently tucking his hand under the rabbi’s elbow, he whispered in his ear, “Got something I want to ask you.”

The rabbi let himself be led to the door and then to the parking lot beyond, although he expected no important request or significant revelation. By temperament Chester Kaplan was given to intrigue and its outward manifestations: the confidential whisper, the knowing nod and wink, the little grimace invoking silence at the approach of a third person. Now at the rabbi’s car and safely out of earshot of eavesdroppers, he asked, “Have you thought any more about that business we discussed at the last board meeting, Rabbi?”

“You mean about the retreat? Well, I haven’t changed my mind about it.”

Kaplan pursed his lips in momentary annoyance, then he smiled, a bright friendly smile, his eyes crinkling with good humor. “You made the point that the temple couldn’t afford it,” he said. “All right, you’ve convinced me.” He looked at the rabbi, his eyes wide with candor. “I thought originally, if we put on a big drive, we could raise the money. But after inquiring around a little, I decided you were right and that it would be a tough proposition to promote.” He smiled and gave a little nod of the head to indicate that he was man enough to admit when he was wrong.

“Well –”

Kaplan clutched the rabbi’s arm. “But what if the money was no problem? What if I were to tell you that there is a chance of getting the property without it costing the temple or the membership one red cent?”

The rabbi smiled. “The difficulty in raising the money was just one of my objections. I’d still be against it.”

“But why, Rabbi? Why?” His tone registered puzzled hurt.

“Because it smacks of Christianity rather than Judaism,” said the rabbi promptly. “It suggests convents and monasteries, an ivory-tower attitude. Retreat– the word itself suggests retiring from life and the world, that’s not Judaic, weparticipate.”

“But prayer and meditation. Rabbi, they’re part and parcel of our religious tradition.”

“Sure, and that’s what the temple is for. If you want to pray and meditate, why can’t you do it at the temple or in your own home for that matter? Why do you have to run off to the country?”

“We don’t have to, but –”

“Is it because some other temples and synagogues have gone in for it? Or is it because you’d like to have something positive, something material, that you can point to as an accomplishment of your administration?”

“Naturally, I’d like to make a major contribution to the development of the temple,” Kaplan said stiffly.

“Well, you already have.”

“I have?”

“Certainly. You’re the first president we’ve had since Jacob Wasserman who is an observant Jew, that’s a major contribution in itself.”

Kaplan nodded thoughtfully. “Don’t think it’s a fluke, Rabbi, there’s a new spirit around. I was elected because I am an observant, religious Jew. I might point out that a number of my friends, people who think as I do, were also elected to the board of directors. Why? Because there’s a yearning for religion, and not just going through the motions, there’s a religious renaissance, and I can feel it, and it’s why I was elected.”

“Well…” The rabbi smiled deprecatingly, he did not think it politic to mention Tizzik’s explanation, or even his own.

“The young fellow who was sitting next to you, the guy with the beard, did you notice how he davened? With what fervor and intensity? It’s a sign of the times. Who was he, by the way?”

“I don’t know, a stranger visiting in the neighborhood. His name is Rokeach, Akiva Rokeach.”

“There he is now.” Kaplan nodded toward the far end of the parking lot where Rokeach was climbing into a low-slung sports car, they watched as he raced his motor and then set the car in motion to make a wide sweep toward them, he braked the car momentarily to wave to the rabbi. “I guess you don’t remember me, Rabbi,” he called out.

“Should I? Do I know you?” the rabbi asked. But evidently the young man did not hear over the throb of the engine, because he laughed and sped away.

“He must know you,” said Kaplan.

“No one I remember, unless he was a student at one of the colleges where I’ve talked to Hillel groups, maybe he asked a question.” He looked at the president curiously. “You think the way he davened, rocking back and forth, is an indication of religious fervor?”

“What would you call it?”

The rabbi shrugged. “A style, a mannerism picked up from those who taught him to daven, andthat must have been fairly recently judging from his halting Hebrew.”

“That’s just the point, Rabbi, that’s exactly what I mean, he’s new at it, he must have got interested in religion just recently, and it means a great deal to him because he’s just visiting, you said, and yet he makes a point of coming to the minyan, he’s not exceptional, believe me, at these Wednesday evening get-togethers I’ve been having at my house, you hear so many similar stories that –”

“Is that what you do Wednesday nights? Get together and swap testimonials?”

“We discuss all kinds of things,” said Kaplan stiffly. “Any kind of input is welcome. Why don’t you come some Wednesday night and find out for yourself?”

“I might at that. Tonight –”

“Tonight there won’t be much that would interest you.” Kaplan interposed quickly, and then added, “Of course, you’re welcome, but –”

“I was about to say that I couldn’t make it tonight. I have one of my sick calls. Old Jacob Kestler – I promised to come and sit with him for a while.”

“How about next Wednesday? Mark it in your calendar. Or any Wednesday you’re free.”

“All right, I will.”

At precisely seven o’clock Wednesday morning, as on every other day of the year. Marcus Aptaker, the proprietor of Town-Line Drugs, came down to breakfast, he was a methodical, systematic man and the things he had to do regularly he did automatically. Freshly shaved, rimless eyeglasses gleaming, his thin brownish-blond hair was plastered down as though painted on, he was neatly dressed in his blue suit – the blue for Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays; the gray for Tuesdays. Thursdays and Saturdays. On Sundays, because the store was open only half a day and it was therefore a half holiday, he dressed in slacks and a sweater. To be sure, when he got to the store, he would hang up his jacket and put on a cotton store jacket, but it was as a doctor might put on a lab coat to make hospital rounds, the important thing was to be properly dressed going to and coming from the store, because as a professional man attention to dress was a responsibility he owed to his position.

He was seated at the dining room table when his wife Rose entered a few minutes later, she was still in her bathrobe, her hair pulled back from a round pleasant face and hanging down her back in a loose braid, she served him his breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice, eggs, bacon and toast, with a nod at the other place setting on the table he said pleasantly, “I suppose Arnold will be sleeping late today.”

“No, he got up early, he’s already gone,” his wife answered.

“Gone? Gone where? And without breakfast?”

“He said he’d be back for it, he went to the temple for the morning service, he said you were supposed to pray first and then eat.”

“Is this some special holiday? I hadn’t heard anything about it.”

“No, it’s just the daily service, they hold it in the morning and in the evening. When my mother died, my father went for a whole year, every morning and every evening.”