One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross (14 page)

He went down to the lobby and spoke to one of the desk clerks. “How would I get to the Old City?” he asked.

“You can take a cab—”

“No, I want to walk if I can. Is it within walking distance?”

“Oh, yes. About fifteen or twenty minutes. It's down the hill. Take the first street on your right when you leave the hotel. That will take you to Mamilla Street. You follow that until you get to the Wall. If you follow it to the right, you'll come to the Jaffa Gate.”

The streets were largely deserted. The occasional pedestrian obviously hurrying along, frequently clutching a bunch of flowers, to prepare for the Sabbath. But as Grenish approached the Jaffa Gate of the Wall, he saw there were a number of people, obviously tourists with cameras dangling from their shoulders. He approached a policeman. “The Mideast Trading Corporation, can you tell me where it is?”

“Ah, Mideast Trading.
Français
?” And when Grenish shook his head, the policeman pointed and made a motion with his hand to indicate that he was to descend. Then he held up two fingers and curved his hand to the right and then pointed.

“I go down this street and at the second street to the right—”

To make sure he understood, the policeman held up one finger, then turned his hand to the right and shook his head violently. Then he held up two fingers and again curved his hand to the right and nodded and smiled.

Grenish interpreted this to mean that he must not go down the first street but rather down the second. He smiled back to show he understood and said, “Thank you, thank you.” He walked away thinking how unnecessary knowledge of other languages was for traveling.

The narrow street with shops on either side, most of them with displays of merchandise in front of the shop, sloped sharply down, amply justifying the policeman's initial motion that he was to descend. Here and there it was broken by little flights of two or three shallow steps, presumably to make progress in the other direction easier. He walked slowly, looking from side to side at the displays of wool rugs and brass pots and olive wood carvings and sheepskin vests and leather handbags and mother-of-pearl jewelry and, and … Once he had to crowd over to one side toilet through a youngster who was wheeling a large cart loaded with pitas down the incline, leaning back on the handbar so it should not get away from him. And no sooner had he passed when again he had to press to one side as a porter came up the incline, bearing a large chest on his back, supported by straps over his shoulders and one across his forehead.

At the first intersection another youngster with a stick maneuvered a couple of donkeys, each laden with an arch of wooden boxes as they minced down the incline with delicate little steps. When he reached the second intersection, he saw his goal. There was a sign in English and Arabic on the corner announcing “Mideast Trading Corporation. Wholesale and Retail.” It was just beyond the corner. But the store was dark, and a steel grille was drawn across the windows and padlocked in place. There was no sign on the door or in the window to the effect that it was closed temporarily, or that the proprietor would be back at some future day or hour. Did it mean that his mission was canceled, and ought he write to El Dhamouri so that he could make other arrangements?

He saw a policeman and went over to him. He pointed. “That store near the corner, can you tell me why it is closed?”

The policeman nodded and smiled.

The policeman obviously was Arab, and like the other, probably spoke French. He tried to recall his college French. What was the word for store? Finally he pointed and said, “
Fermé Pourquois
?”

The policeman nodded and burst into rapid-fire, explosive French. Grenish did not understand a word, but the man was so eager and willing that he felt it would be ungracious to indicate that he had not understood. So he smiled and turned away.

“Can I help you?” It was Skinner. You seem to be having some trouble.”

“No trouble. I just wondered why that store was closed. I asked the policeman, but I'm afraid my French wasn't up to understanding what he said.”

“Oh, well, that's easy. This store is closed because the proprietor is Muslim and it's Friday. Bylaw, all stores have to be closed one day a week. Jewish stores are closed on Saturday, Christian stores on Sunday, and Muslim stores on Friday.”

“And all these other stores—”

“Are Christian. In this section most of the proprietors are Christian.”

They had been strolling along as Skinner explained. Grenish said, “You seem to be quite knowledgeable.”

“Yes, I know the Old City well.”

“Then perhaps you can direct me to a decent restaurant.”

“Oh, there are lots of them. There's one down this street that I occasionally eat in.”

19

At a quarter to seven on Sunday morning, Aharon Perlmutter, having received the guest list from the front desk, took up his station at a small table in front of the entrance to the dining room.

A waiter came over. “A cup of coffee, Mr. Aharon?”

“That would be very nice.”

“And some toast?”

“If you please.”

As he ate his toast and drank his coffee, he ran a practiced eye over the guest list. He noted that there was a French group that had been put on the third and fourth floors, and an American group on the fifth floor. Tour groups were always put in consecutive rooms so that the constant traffic between rooms (with the resultant banging of doors) and their frequent loud hilarity in the corridors did not disturb other guests.

The other guests, those not attached to tours, were assigned rooms on the sixth and seventh floors, which offered better views of the city. There were many nationalities represented: German, French, English, Spanish, and a Japanese couple. These names he studied, pronouncing them to himself so that he would recognize them when they were said to him. He noticed the name Grenish in Room seven-thirteen, and as he said it to himself, he wondered if it might not be an Americanization of his wife's family name, Grenitz. Of course, even it were, it did not necessarily mean a connection with his in-laws. The word meant “border,” and when Jews were required to assume surnames, no doubt many who lived along a border—perhaps between Russia and Poland—had taken or been assigned that name. Still, his father-in-law had once mentioned a relative—a cousin or an uncle—who had immigrated to America. He wondered how he would broach the matter. If he were to ask outright, “Was your name formerly Grenitz?” the man might take offense and regard it as an impertinence. He worried about it and finally decided that when the man pronounced his name, he would reiterate it and then as he pretended to search through the list, he would add that he knew someone by that name, “Granish or maybe Grenitz.” If the man had indeed changed his name from Grenitz, he might say so. Then he, Aharon, could identify himself, and perhaps the other might have some information about his in-laws in Poland. Maybe one or two had managed to escape and had made contact with him at the same time. He looked forward eagerly to the arrival of Grenish for breakfast.

The early arrivals were all tour people. There was no mistaking them. They had cameras and field glasses and maps and travel books. They wore badges for easy identification by the tour guide. Many of them wore
timbals
, the little white duck hats that tour managements often distributed as protection against the sun. They always breakfasted early, for they were scheduled to board the large buses for a day's touring of Jerusalem and its environs.

By eight o'clock the tour people were all gone, and guests from the upper floors began to make their appearances. But it was not until a quarter to nine that Grenish appeared. He had no sooner given his name and room number when the hotel manager came hurrying over and said, “Oh, Aharon, you speak Polish, don't you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then would you please go to the front desk. There's someone there who seems to be able to speak only Polish, or maybe it's Russian—”

“I know both.”

“Fine. Go and interpret for the desk clerk, will you? I'll cover for you here.”

With a lingering look at Grenish, who was helping himself at the buffet table, Aharon left the dining room. He was kept at the front desk until well after nine. When he was at last free, he returned to the dining room in the hope that Grenish might still be there, but the room was clear of guests and the waiters were busy changing the tablecloths.

He went back to the front desk and asked one of the clerks, “Grenish, seven-thirteen. How long is he staying?”

The clerk checked his list. “He's here for the week, Aharon.” It occurred to Aharon that he certainly ought to be able to make contact in the next few days.

At the minyan there was always a hiatus of a few minutes between the conclusion of
mincha
, the afternoon service, and the beginning of
maariv
, the evening service. While occasionally someone used the opportunity to expound some interesting argument he had come across, more often it was merely a recess during which the men sat about and just talked. Perlmutter had arrived just as the service was about to begin, but now that the
mincha
service was over, Rabbi Small went over to him and asked how he liked his new job.

“Oh, it's not really new. I've done it before. It's a bit of a rush for me. Of course, I get through earlier, but—”

“But you'd rather sleep a little later in the morning,” said the rabbi.

“Very true.” He grinned ruefully. “But at my age, I can't be too particular. Strictly speaking, the whole business is pretty silly. We have very few guests who are not entitled to the breakfast, and the few who aren't, don't usually come down to the dining room for breakfast. The last time I had this duty, some months ago, there was only one in the two weeks that I was on the job that we had to charge for a breakfast. My salary for those two and a half hours is a lot more than the occasional breakfast that we might fail to charge for, but we are part of a chain, and the rules are issued by the head office.”

“And it's only for a couple of weeks?”

“Maybe only a week this time.” He brightened. “And you meet so many people, if only for a moment. A whole world. This morning, for instance, in going over my list, I see the name Grenish.”

“And this Grenish, you knew him?”

“No, but my wife's family name, I think I told you, was Grenitz. So it occurred to me that maybe that had been his name, and he had changed it, you know, Americanized it. So I'd ask him. No harm in asking, is there?”

“And?”

“Ah. He came. He gave me his name. But just then the manager asked me to go to the front desk. When I got back, Grenish was gone. So I'll ask him tomorrow. At the desk, they told me he was staying for a week. So I'm hoping.”

20

Ish-Tov's closest friend at the yeshiva was Yitzchak (formerly Irving) Cohen of Amarillo, Texas. Cohen was a year or two older, had been at the yeshiva more than a year before Ish-Tov's arrival. Thin, intense, nervy, Cohen was meticulous in his observance of the commandments to the point that Ish-Tov considered superstitious. He once remarked on it jokingly, and Cohen had replied, “When you've led the kind of life I have, and a couple of times come to the verge—well, never mind, and then you find something that seems to work, you don't go fooling around and experimenting with the formula. Understand?”

Ish-Tov nodded, but he did not really understand, since he knew little or nothing of Cohen's earlier life. Cohen was curious and prying. He had ferreted out all kinds of secrets from his fellow students and his teachers, and these he did not mind passing on, but about his own affairs he was careful to tell nothing.

He not only knew a great deal about the members of the yeshiva, faculty and students, he also had an intimate knowledge of the building itself. He knew where everything was kept, how you could get in and out of the building without going through the front door, just where to stand in their dormitory so you could hear what was being said in Kahn's office a floor below. It was from him that Ish-Tov learned of the sanctuary on the roof.

Sunday afternoon, when they found themselves momentarily alone in the dormitory they shared with four others, Cohen took out a half-empty box of cigarettes and shook loose a couple of misshapen and obviously hand-rolled cigarettes. Ish-Tov's eyes opened wide.

“Pot? Where'd you get them?” he asked.

“In the Old City. When we finished dickering with that Arab over the bag, you walked on ahead. Remember? I hung back and bought a few.”

“From the same guy? How did you know he—”

“I knew. That's why I took you there to dicker about the bag. How about it?”

“Okay. You go first and I'll be along in a couple of minutes.”

Yitzchak nodded agreement and sauntered out of the room. After a quick look around, he walked to the end of the corridor to a door, which he eased open, then up a flight of dusty steps and pushed open another door, which opened onto the roof.

He sat down on the cement roof and rested his back against the shed, which also provided shade against the hot sun. After a couple of minutes he was joined by Ish-Tov, who sat down beside him.

“What kept you?” he asked.

Ish-Tov drew out of his pocket a pair of small, prismatic binoculars. “I wanted to dig these out.”

“What for? To look for birds?”

Ish-Tov grinned lewdly. “Yeah, that's right, for birds. Once I looked right into a bedroom and saw a bird undressing.”

“Hey, boy, you know what that kind of talk around here gets you? A
shadchen
. He comes around, and in a week you're married. And then it's a kid every year for the next ten or twelve years. You're twenty-five? Twenty-six? They'll be arranging a marriage for you pretty soon, anyway. No need to hurry it, though.”