The Outsider (11 page)

“He's not just a justice of the peace. He's one of my uncle's best friends.”

“It's not the kind of thing I participate in.”

“You're not participating. You're just watching. Is there any Jewish law against that?”

“I'm not talking about any law or prohibition. I'm simply asking you to recognize my position and exhibit some understanding. There will be a rabbi watching two Jewish kids being hitched by a justice of the peace.”

“So?”

“For heaven's sake, it
past nisht.
”

“Wonderful! You've learned two words of Yiddish, which every German Jew calls not a language but a patois!”

“My word, you are angry.”

“Don't I have every right to be?” Suddenly she softened and entreated him, “Davey, why do we get into these ridiculous fights? I love you so much — if you'd only try to be a nice, flexible human being. The kids in my Sunday school class say, ‘Mrs. Hartman, first you say one thing and then it becomes something else.' I tell them that's all right, that's perfectly human. And it is, David, it is.”

The drive down to the Fairfield railroad station was lightened only by the chattering of the children, who, David had to admit, looked very beautiful dressed for traveling. They were both strawberry blond, both covered with freckles after the long summer, both with David's bright blue eyes.

“They're beautiful kids, aren't they?” Lucy whispered into his ear.

“They should be, with the mother they chose for themselves.”

“Oh?”

“I do love you, Lucy.”

“Took you eighteen miles to say it.”

“Be careful, won't you? And take good care of them.”

Both intimations of incompetence on my part, she thought, but said nothing, only nodded and smiled.

At the station, he waited with them, playing with the children until the train arrived. Then he kissed her and the kids and called after her, “My best to your mom and pop.”

The train clanked away, and David stood for a long moment, unmoving, thinking that this was the first time in five years that he had been separated from Lucy for more than a few hours.

But what irritated him and plucked at every guilt-ridden cell in his body was the fact that he was happy, free, alone in the world for the next three days, free to do as he pleased and go where he pleased; although he was quite aware that he was going nowhere and that here he was, at almost noon on a Friday, with a sermon to deliver and still unwritten and with the High Holy Days facing him in just another week.

None of which was enough to dampen his spirits. He felt young and vital and alert to everything he saw. The Aspetuck Reservoir was beautiful beyond words; it was as if he had never seen it before, though he had driven past it fifty times. The leaves on the trees were just beginning to turn, dancing before a light, cool breeze, and he had to think What a beautiful, extraordinary place God's world is!

He repressed his feelings of guilt. Is it a sin to be happy? he asked himself, quelling what he knew were the reasons for his delight, but again asking himself, What else could I have done? I'm a rabbi. Could I have gone to that wedding and sat complacently while two Jewish kids are married by a justice of the peace? And suppose questions came. Nothing those characters enjoy better than tweaking a rabbi's nose. “Did you enjoy the ceremony, Rabbi?” “You see, we break God's commandment and nothing happens. Possibly because we are in New Jersey. Sensibly, God doesn't visit New Jersey.”

He slipped deeper into his musings. One is always the victim in those things. Even on those increasingly rare occasions when he and Lucy brought the kids down to New York to see her parents, they could not resist working David over, albeit very gently.

His mood of lightheaded joy had vanished with his thoughts, and now he began to think of what he would put into his sermon. No matter how many times he did it, no sermon came easily, and indeed, if anything, each was more difficult than the previous one. There were wealthy congregations where the rabbi could entice a guest speaker every other week, and even pay an honorarium, a word he loathed. But what guest speaker would journey to Leighton for a Friday night audience of fifty?

What else did he have to do today? he wondered. Myron Schillman would be around for an hour's discussion of his
Bar Mitzvah.
The world as Myron Schillman turns thirteen. Myron, if your blessed rabbi used such language, he would tell you the world stinks in this
goyishe
year of 1951 — a strange bit of mentation for a rabbi, and suppose my parishioners could look inside my skull? Just suppose so. Firstly, the use of the word parishioner, even as a thought — heaven forbid that I should speak it aloud, and me, Rabbi David Hartman, with a brand-new
shul,
which of course we call a temple, it would be so old-country and Eastern European to call it a
shul.
But brand new, with a modern red-brick design to replace the little ancient church we started with only five years — can it be only five years? — no, closer to five and a half years ago, and there it stands, Temple Shalom, with three classrooms and an office for myself, Rabbi Hartman, and a tiny office for my secretary — if ever we can afford one — and all of it brought in for a little over sixty thousand dollars.

Now we are a going institution, with eight hundred copies of the Union Prayer Book — no, no, no, that kind of thinking is useless for either my sermon or for Myron, who will step out into the world as a man. Funny thing, you're such a sweet kid, and now at the age of thirteen, you are to step out into this lousy, perverted world. Why am I so bitter and angry at the world, Myron? Well, let us see what the years have brought us. That war to save the world from all other wars — or was that the other one? — well, it's six years in the past and we are at war again in Korea. Why? God knows; I do not. Something about dominoes, Myron. What else? They've purged the Communist Party again in Czechoslovakia. What does purged mean? No, it's not a laxative. It's standing an assortment of people up against an assortment of walls and shooting them. Very popular these days. And let us not forget those two lost souls who have been found guilty of stealing atom bomb secrets, although Herbie Fisher, who is the newest addition to my burgeoning congregation, says he can make an atom bomb with one hand tied behind his back, and so can anyone else who isn't a scientific booby. But I kind of doubt that —

“God forgive me,” he said aloud. “I'll get into the habit of talking that way, and then I'll really have to ask God's forgiveness, and poor Myron. If I apologize to him, he'll have every right to ask what on earth I'm apologizing about. Could I tell him? Could I? Answer me, Rabbi David Hartman!”

Only the day before, Mel Klein had taken David aside after a meeting of the board and said, “David,
boychik,
myself I know nothing about politics, and the little bit I know, I don't want to know. I got enough trying to keep my head above the water in that lousy
shmatteh
shop downtown, and taking care of my family, and trying to keep this synagogue from a common religious disease called mortgage-itis. So as far as politics are concerned, I give my fifty dollars a year to the Democratic Party, and that's the end of it.”

“Mel, what are you trying to tell me?”

“Politics. It's been in every one of your past four sermons. The congregation don't like it.”

“Who doesn't like it?” David demanded, bristling.

“Come on, come on, I say two words, you're ready to deck me. David, I don't want no trouble. You're a wonderful rabbi. It's a miracle we got you here instead of some
shlemiel.
”

“Thank you, Mel. Now who's been complaining about politics in my sermons?”

“I'm naming no names.”

“All right, Mel, but these folks, the next time they unload on you about my politics, tell them to read Prophets. A bit of praise the Lord, but ninety percent of the various books of the Prophets is politics.”

Still, the message took, and now, driving home, he decided that the subject of the sermon would be Prophets. An evasion, yet a good way out. He would do a biblical sermon, pure and simple, eschewing any mention of current events. It was what Martin Carter did when the going got rough in his congregation, and it always cooled the heat. People felt great comfort going into a house of worship and stepping back three thousand years to a world that did not exist, that was absurdly simple and void of atom bombs, fragmentation bombs, tanks and machine guns. Certainly, he calculated, more human beings were slaughtered in World War Two than the number of the entire human race at the time of Amos. He decided that he must try to work this out. Suppose the entire world population at the time of Amos was, say, ten million; say, twenty million. Less than half the number that died in World War Two. “There, my lad,” he decided, “is a sermon. And there is politics,” he added ruefully.

“Mel is right,” he admitted to himself. “I do it every time.”

He was just finishing the sermon, when Myron Schillman arrived. He was a tall, long-limbed boy, with a shy smile and a voice that still cracked occasionally. He entered David's office tentatively. The office had a large, built-in bookcase, a desk, and three wooden chairs that were fair imitations of Windsors. David had a swivel chair behind his desk. Carpeting on the floor, leather couch, leather chairs, and a respectable library in the very large bookcase were all the things for the future. The money had run out.

“Myron, sit down, please,” David said to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good, thank you, Rabbi.”

“If you get too many fountain pens, I'll trade for something else.” It was his standard small joke to break the ice. Myron knew about it. The other kids told him to expect it.

“Sure, I'll trade, Rabbi,” he answered, grinning.

“Well, Myron, this is a very informal hour. I like to have a chat with boys who bear the burden of becoming a man at the age of thirteen years. It's a little early, don't you think?”

“It wasn't in the old days, was it?”

“Not even in the time of the people who first settled Leighton Ridge. But today — well, you do have high school and college still ahead of you.”

“Yeah.”

“So I guess that the real meaning concerns the taking on of a certain amount of responsibility. After all, the essence of being a kid is being without responsibility.”

Myron looked uncertain, and David amended his statement. He never really knew what to say to the kids on these occasions, and frequently his remarks had to be adjusted to the action of the child's ductless glands. There were thirteen-year-olds who were almost six feet tall, the first fuzz of hair on their cheeks, and there were others who were still burdened with baby fat, pink cheeks, and a skin as smooth as silk. Thirteen was an odd age to select as the door into manhood, but as Myron had suggested, it must have been quite different in the old days.

When Myron left, David put his feet up on the desk and leaned back. He had to admit that the swivel chair was a great improvement. He could dispense with the rest of the new synagogue furniture, but the swivel chair, never.

The telephone rang. It was Lucy, informing him that she had arrived safely in New Jersey with the children, that everyone was really devastated that David had not come, and that everyone sent their love. “Did you finish your sermon?” she asked him.

“Yup. Finished the sermon, had a chat with Myron, four o'clock, and I think I'll go home, shower, and drink a martini.”

“Who's Myron?”

“Our latest
Bar Mitzvah
boy. Nice kid.”

“And what's the sermon on?”

“Amos.”

“Who's Amos?”

“The prophet.”

“That Amos.”

“You sound relieved,” David said.

“Well — sort of,” she admitted. “I've heard some remarks about politics in your sermons.”

“Everyone's heard them except me.”

“And there's stew in the fridge. All you have to do is warm it up.”

“I'll have a sandwich.”

“I made the stew for you, David. Four different vegetables and a decent piece of meat. Your sandwiches are empty calories.”

“I'll skip the martini. I'll have a sandwich and a beer.”

“Great. There's nothing warms up your breath like beer, and just as soon as you set foot in the synagogue, someone smells it — and there it is, the rabbi's drunk. And as a food, beer is worthless.”

“What are we arguing about, Lucy?”

“I know. I know. It's crazy. We say two words to each other, and suddenly we're at each other's throat. David, have your sandwich and beer. I should know you have no appetite before services. I'm sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. I love you, dear, and I promise never to die of malnutrition.”

“That's a pretty good joke for a rabbi,” Lucy said.

David had hardly put down the telephone when it rang again. It was Martin Carter this time, and he said, “David, when are you and Lucy free this evening — I mean when do you finish with your Friday night devotions?” Only Martin Carter called the Sabbath evening services devotions.

“Oh — I'd say nine-thirty at the latest. I decided to do a religious sermon on Amos, and it ran short. Everyone will love me for that.”

“I do Isaiah in the Prophets. He's pure gold.”

“I've exhausted him, at least for this year.”

“Well, nine-thirty, even ten will be great. Millie and I are giving our seasonal bash. You know, we rarely entertain, what with the dinner invitations from the parish members, three or four a week, bad for the stomach and sticky for the mind. So once a year we do a buffet for about twenty of our friends — of course you know. You were here last year. Well, Millie spoke to Lucy last week, and Lucy said you'd both be down in Jersey or somewhere for a wedding, but then I drove past and saw your car sitting in the driveway and thought perhaps the wedding was off.”