Harry Kemelman - Friday The Rabbi Slept Late

Ben Schwarz had come to him full of glad tidings. He thought his good friend would be happy to hear he wouldn't have to stand the considerable expense of mounting a new motor in the car.

But Becker had been far from pleased. True, it would cost Becker Motors nothing, but it did mean a lot of trouble, perhaps extensive correspondence to explain the matter to the company.

"How does the rabbi get into things like this?" he wanted to know. "You're a sensible feller, Ben. Now I ask you, is this the function of a rabbi of a temple?"

"But you don't understand, Al," Schwarz said. "It wasn't the question of repairs on the car at all. It was, of course, but-"

"Well, was it or wasn't it?"

"Well, sure it was, but I mean I didn't go to him about that. He happened to hear I was sore at Abe Reich so he suggested a Din Torah-"

"A Din who?"

"Din Torah," said Schwarz carefully. "It's when two parties to a conflict or an argument go to the rabbi and he hears the case and makes a judgment according to the Talmud. It's a regular thing that rabbis do."

"First I heard of it."

"Well, I admit I didn't know about it before myself. Anyway, I agreed, and Reich and I and Wasserman-as a kind of witness, I suppose-went to the rabbi, and he worked the whole thing out so that it was plain that neither Reich nor I had been negligent. And by God, if I wasn't negligent and the driver of the car wasn't negligent, then the fault was in the car and the company is supposed to make good."

"Well, goddammit, the company won't make good unless I say so, and I can just see myself going to them for a job this big with that kind of cock-and-bull story."

Becker's voice was never soft, and when he was angry he shouted.

Schwarz seemed suddenly deflated. "But there was a teak in the seal," he shouted back. "I told you about that."

"Sure, a couple of drops a week. That kind of leak wouldn't burn out a motor."

"A couple of drops when she was standing still. But she must have been gushing when I drove. I put two quarts in on my way to New Hampshire. That's no couple of drops. Now that I know from my own knowledge."

The door of Becker's office opened and his junior partner, Melvin Bronstein, came in. Bronstein was a youngish man of forty, tall and slim with wavy black hair just beginning to gray at the temples; deep, dark eyes, an aquiline nose, and sensitive lips.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Is it a private argument, or can anyone join? I'll bet they could hear you guys down the block."

"What's going on is that in our temple we've got ourselves a rabbi who can be depended on to do everything except what he's supposed to do," said Becker.

Bronstein looked at Schwarz for enlightenment. Happy to have a somewhat less overpowering audience, Schwarz told his story while Becker rustled papers on his desk in elaborate unconcern.

Bronstein beckoned from the doorway of the office, and somewhat reluctantly Becker went over. Schwarz turned away so he would not appear to eavesdrop.

"Ben is a good customer of ours, Al," whispered Bronstein. "I don't think the company would question it."

"Yeah? Well, I've had dealings with the Ford Company since before you got out of high school, Mel," said Becker aloud.

But Bronstein knew his partner. He grinned at him. "Look, Al, if you turn Ben down you'll only have Myra to deal with. Isn't she president of the temple Sisterhood this year?"

"And last year, too," Ben could not help adding.

"It won't do our business any good to have her sore at us," Bronstein said, once again lowering his voice.

"Well, the Sisterhood don't buy cars."

"But the husbands of all the members do."

"Goddammit, Mel, how am I going to explain that I want the company to put a new engine in a car because the rabbi of my temple decided they ought to?"

"You don't have to mention the rabbi at all. You don't even have to explain how it happened. You can just say that the seal let go while the car was being driven."

"And what if the company sends down an investigator?"

"Have they ever done it to you, Al?"

"No, but they have with some other agencies."

"All right," said Bronstein with a grin, "if he comes, you can introduce him to your rabbi."

Suddenly Becker's mood changed. He chuckled deep in his throat and turned to Schwarz. "All right, Ben, I'll write the company and see if they'll go along. I'm only doing it, you understand, because you sold Mel here a bill of goods. He's the original big-hearted kid, the softest touch in town."

"Aw, you're just teed off because the rabbi was involved," said Bronstein. He turned to Schwarz. "Al would have gone along from the beginning, and glad of a chance to help out a customer, too, if you hadn't mentioned the rabbi."

"What have you got against the rabbi, Al?" asked Ben.

"What have I got against the rabbi?" Becker removed the cigar from his mouth. "I'll tell you what I've got against the rabbi. He's not the man for the job; that's what I've got against him. He's supposed to be our representative, yet would you hire him as a salesman for your company, Ben? Come on now, be truthful."

"Sure, I'd hire him," said Schwarz, but his tone did not carry conviction.

"Well, if you were fool enough to hire him, I hope you would be smart enough to fire him the first time he got out of line."

"When has he got out of line?" demanded Schwarz.

"Oh, come on, Ben. How about the time we had the Fathers and Sons breakfast and we brought down Barney Gilligan of the Red Sox to talk to the kids. He gets up to introduce him and what does he say? He gives the kids a long spiel about how our heroes are scholars instead of athletes. I could've gone through the floor."

"Well…"

"And how about the time your own wife had him come down to pep up the girls of the Sisterhood to put on a big campaign for a Chanukah gift for the temple, and he tells them that keeping Judaism in their hearts and a kosher home was more important for Jewish women than campaigning for gifts for the temple."

"Just a minute, Al. Naturally I wouldn't say anything against my own wife, but right is right. That was a luncheon meeting, and Myra served shrimp cocktail, which ain't kosher-type food and which you couldn't blame a rabbi for being sore about."

"And with all this in-fighting going on, you keep trying to get me to join the temple," said Bronstein with a wink at Schwarz.

"Sure," said his partner, "because as a Jew and a resident of Barnard's Crossing you owe it to yourself and to your community to become a member. As for the rabbi, he won't be there forever, you know."

The Board of Direstors were using one of the empty classrooms to hold their regular Sunday meeting. Jacob Wasserman, as the president of the temple and chairman of the board, sat at the teacher's desk. The rest, fifteen of them, had squeezed themselves into the pupils' seats, their legs stretched out uncomfortably in the aisles. A few in back were sitting on the desks themselves, their feet on the chairs in front. Except for Wasserman, the beard was composed of younger men, half still in their thirties and the rest in their forties and early fifties. Wasserman was dressed in a lightweight business suit, but the others wore the conventional costume in Barnard's Crossing for a warm Sunday in June-slacks, sport shirts, and jackets or golf sweaters.

Through the open windows came the roar of a power lawn mower operated by Stanley, the janitor. Through the open door came the shrill chanting of the children in the assembly down the hall. There was little formality to the proceedings, members speaking whenever they felt like it, and more often than not, as now, several at once.

The chairman rapped on the desk with a ruler. "Gentlemen, one at a time. Now what were you saying, Joe?"