One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross (7 page)

“Then, with the Old City now in the hands of the State of Israel, my father asked for our house in Abu Tor back. He had the deeds, you see, and there were some powerful people in the government who remembered the help my father had given the Haganah, so they let us have it. Maybe they would have anyway, since we had title, but it certainly didn't hurt to have helped the Haganah.”

“And all this time your father carried on his export business?” asked Miriam.

Skinner laughed shortly. “The export business was deteriorating rapidly, and when the State was declared, it practically went down the drain.”

“Why was that?” asked Miriam, puzzled.

“Figure it out for yourself. We had been offering the products of the Holy Land. It was unusual. It was exotic. And it was sort of religious. But then your people began exporting, and it was no longer rare or exotic, and since you were trying to establish markets and your farmers were working on a cooperative basis, you were selling the stuff cheaper.”

“So what did your father do?”

“Oh, lots of things,” said Skinner vaguely. “You see, he had contacts among the Arabs and he was able to put that to good use. For a while he was a sort of unofficial go-between for Israel and Iran. You'd be surprised at the amount of machinery that found its way to Israel from some of the Arab countries. My father had a hand in it. And—oh, lots of things.”

“You use the past tense—”

“Yes, Father died a few years ago. I had been working with him for a couple of years, however, so I was able to carry on, since I knew his contacts and they knew me. And, of course, we still do some exporting, mostly honey and olive oil.”

“And you live in Jerusalem?” asked Miriam. “I mean, that's your home?”

“No, my home, my official residence, is in Boston. But I do a lot of traveling, so I'm there not more than a few months in the year. This is my third trip to Israel this year. When I'm in the Mideast, then my home is in Jerusalem. I have offices there, and in Haifa, but Jerusalem is home base. From there I might go to Egypt, Jordan, Iran, anywhere in the area. I used to have to go to Crete first, but since the Israel-Egypt Peace Treaty, it's a lot easier. Where are you folks from?”

“We're from the Boston area,” said Rabbi Small.

“From Barnard's Crossing,” Miriam added.

“Oh, I've visited there. It's a nice town.”

“We think so,” said Miriam.

“A friend of mine had a boat that was anchored there. Ah, here's our dinner. Although it's kosher, they do you rather well on El Al.”

“You would prefer nonkosher food?” asked the rabbi.

“No-o. When I stay in an Israeli hotel, I make a regular pig of myself on the breakfast, except that I like butter with my bread and cream with my coffee, and they can't give it to you if they're serving meat.”

“I see.” The rabbi tore off a bit of his roll, salted it, and recited the blessing. “Blessed art thou, O Lord … who brought forth bread from the earth.”

“That's the
motze
you just recited, isn't it?” said Skinner to make conversation as much as to show that he had some knowledge of Jewish practice. “Now, my father would have said grace—”

“But you don't.”

“No, I've been away from the Church too long to bother.”

“You lose something by it,” said the rabbi.

“How d'ya mean?”

“Well, the blessing that we offer, or your recital of grace, makes partaking of food something other than a mere refueling operation. It's one of the things that distinguishes us from the lower animals. We can enjoy our food. They can only satisfy hunger.”

Skinner grinned. “Which is why we get fat and they don't, and die of diseases induced by being overweight and they don't.”

“Of course,” said the rabbi. “There is always a penalty for misusing a gift, for overdoing a virtue.”

“I suppose.” He nodded in the direction of a young bearded Hasid with earlocks who was sitting across the aisle and was only just now receiving a tray from the steward, one markedly different from those they had received. “That's a glad kosher meal he's getting, isn't it? I understand it's a superkosher meal.”

The rabbi laughed. “Not glad.
Glatt
. It's a Yiddish word and means in the context strictly, strictly kosher.”

“I should think you would have ordered the same thing, seeing as how you're a rabbi.”

“It's because I am a rabbi that I didn't.”

“Really?”

“You see,” said the rabbi easily as he poured wine from the small bottle that had accompanied his meal into a plastic glass, “kosher refers not only to the species of animal that is permitted, the grazing animal that chews its cud as opposed to meat-eating predators, but it also refers to the condition of the animal and its method of slaughter. The slaughterer, the
shohet
, is an observant and learned man and he performs his work on the animal painlessly. He uses a knife of razor sharpness. If there is a nick on the edge that would impede the movement of the knife ever so little but that might cause pain, the animal is rendered thereby not kosher,
traife
.”

“Yes, I knew that.”

“But the condition of the animal is also important. After slaughtering, the
shohet
is required to examine the viscera for signs of sickness or disease. Obvious cases he is qualified to judge on his own and either pass as kosher or condemn as
traife
. But if he is uncertain, he submits it to a rabbi, for
him
to judge and make the finding. Well,
glatt
kosher is the meat of an animal that has never been submitted to a rabbi to have its
kashrut
—whether it's kosher—determined.”

“There can't be many that are submitted. I mean not in the States, or in any civilized country where there is government inspection.”

“True, but as a rabbi, I resent the assumption that an animal that the rabbi has declared kosher is any less kosher than one that was never submitted to him for examination.”

“I get your point, but I'm sure not all rabbis agree with you.”

“Perhaps not. Do you know many rabbis?”

“Quite a few. Living in Jerusalem, how could I avoid it?”

Shortly after the dinner trays were collected, a stewardess came along with a bunch of earphones on her arm for those who wanted to watch the movie they were about to show.

Miriam shook her head and the rabbi said, “No, thanks. I'm going to try to sleep.”

Skinner said, “Yes, I'll have a pair.” Then to the rabbi, “And I think I'll go back and find a place in the smoking section. I'm perishing for a cigarette.”

The cabin was darkened for the movie, and the rabbi squirmed about in his seat, hoping to find a position that would enable him to sleep. “I wonder if he's planning to come back after his cigarette, or if he'll stay back in the smoking section and watch the movie from there.”

“Why?” asked Miriam.

“Because if he's not coming back for a while, I'll lift up the chair arm and stretch out. Maybe I'll be able to sleep.”

“Oh, I'm sure he'll stay in back for a while. He took his earphones with him. Maybe he'll find someone to talk to back there and just stay there. He seems a very friendly sort.”

“Well, if he does come back, I'll just sit up again.”

Skinner did not come back until shortly before landing, after the stewardess had come around to distribute the cards that had to be filled out for the passport authorities and preparations were being made for the descent.

As the plane touched down, there was a burst of applause from the passengers. At the skill of the pilot? That the long journey was at an end? Or to express joy at the arrival? The rabbi was never sure which, but he was curiously touched. As far as he knew, it happened only on the El Al flight to Israel. Simultaneously, the public-address system on the plane burst out in a song of welcome. The plane came to a halt, and the passengers began hauling out their carry-on luggage from overhead compartments. Skinner rose and took out his jacket and bag, then took out the rabbi's and Miriam's coats for them.

“Well, good-bye,” Skinner said. “It was nice to have met you. Perhaps we'll see each other in Jerusalem.” He stepped into the aisle and was carried forward by the push of the crowd to the exit and the flight of stairs that led to the buses waiting to convey the passengers to the terminal.

In the terminal they had their passports stamped and then proceeded through the barrier to get a cart and go to the carousel on which baggage was already beginning to come through. They did not have long to wait, and the rabbi took it as a good omen that both their valises came through together. Miriam, mindful of the rabbi's bad back, tried to help him lift them off the carousel onto the carrier, but he insisted he could manage, and although he did feel a twinge of pain, he took care not to wince.

There were two gates, one red for those who had something to declare and on which they might have to pay duty, the other green for those who had nothing to declare. They chose the green gate and a moment later found themselves on the sidewalk, facing the crowd awaiting the arrival of the passengers. They searched the sea of faces for Gittel, but it was she who spotted them.

9

“Miriam! David! over here.” She hugged miriam to her and then releasing her, she turned to the rabbi, clasped his head in both hands, and kissed him. She was a little older-looking than when they had last seen her, a little more wrinkled, her hair piled on top of her head untidily, a little grayer. But her bearing still carried the note of complete command over any situation she might find herself in.

She demanded to know why Jonathon and Hepsibah had not come with them, and when Miriam told her they were on vacation at summer camp, she asked, “Wouldn't they have a better vacation here in Israel than in camp?”

“But it wouldn't be much of a vacation for us,” the rabbi pointed out.

In answer to their inquiries about her son and his family, she said, “Uri is now a banker. He wears a three-piece suit and a kipah. He's religious now, you know. It's one of those little crocheted ones. Not yet a black hat, thank God. Right now he's in the army reserve, in
miluim
. He's a major,” she added proudly. “As for his wife, she comes to visit once in a while. I suppose Uri tells her to. She brings the boy when she comes. A real charmer, that boy. He, too, wears a kipah, I'm afraid. Maybe he'll outgrow it.”

Then abruptly she led them to the curb and said, “Stand right here, and if anyone tries to park, wave them on. Now, you wait right here and I'll go get the car.” She looked mistrustfully at the two heavy bags and added, “It's a small car, but we'll manage. We can put them on the roof. I have a luggage carrier.”

Remembering her old rattletrap of a car held together with baling wire and operated by prayer and imprecation, they were pleasantly surprised when a few minutes later she drove up a smart little Renault sedan that seemed almost new.

She parked and got out, and the rabbi said, “Ah, Gittel, a new car.”

“Not quite new.” Her tone was deprecatory, but she was obviously pleased. “It was only a couple of years old when I got it.” A shrug. “The present administration has grandiose ideas for our economy. It used to be that we weren't permitted to buy things like cars and color television sets and new stoves and refrigerators until we could afford them. The present administration has a better idea. They encourage us to buy whatever we want in the hope that we'll eventually be able to afford them. And to encourage us even more, they keep lowering the value of our money so you have to keep buying things so that your money shouldn't become useless before you can spend it. It's quite a system. Look”—she waved at the cars that were lined up along the curb—“not a jalopy among them. Now, let's see: We'll have to hoist those bags onto the roof.”

But as the rabbi took the first bag off the luggage carrier, Miriam said, “No, David, I won't let you.” And to Gittel she explained, “He has a bad back.”

“So I'll get someone to do it,” said Gittel. She looked around at a group of cabdrivers who were standing about waiting for fares, and was about to approach them when Skinner, their erstwhile seatmate on the plane, came along and greeted them.

“I see you got through early. My man was supposed to meet me, but I guess he got held up.” He noticed the small and cluttered trunk and their two large bags. “Can I give you a hand?”

“We were planning to load our bags on the roof,” said Miriam.

“Here, let me help.” He picked up one of the bags with a heave and hoisted it onto the roof.

“A regular Samson,” said Gittel admiringly. “I've got some rope—”

“Good.” And hoisting the other bag on the roof, he took the rope from her and proceeded to thread it through the handles of the bags and then through the supports of the luggage carrier.

“And where are
you
going? Tel Aviv?” Gittel asked.

“No, I'm going to Jerusalem. Maybe I can catch a
sherut
, or take a cab.”

“To Jerusalem? But that's where we're going. So come with us.”

“I'll be crowding you.”

“Not at all. It's a big car. Miriam can sit in front with me, and you two men can sit in back. Women's lib.”

The sun had already gone down, and dusk was soon followed by the darkness of night. Although they could see little beyond the roadway, Gittel persisted in pointing out places of interest. “You can't see it now, but that's a kibbutz on the right.” And, “If there were light, you could see the armored vehicles that were hit by the Arabs during the War of Independence.”

Miriam made noises of interest and appreciation, and Skinner even turned to peer out of the window, which the rabbi thought was very polite of him, since he had no doubt been over that road dozens of times.