Гарри Кемельман - Wednesday the Rabbi got wet

I suppose you 're happy about the outcome of the election."

Rabbi David Small turned and saw that it was Joshua Tizzik, a thin little man with a long nose and a mouth twisted in a perpetual sneer, who had fallen in step with him.

The evening service had just ended, and Rabbi Small was strolling back to his car in the parking lot, savoring the balmy air of the October Indian summer, the rabbi was thin and pale and walked with a scholarly stoop although still under forty, he fixed nearsighted eyes on Tizzik and said, "If you mean that the election of Chester Kaplan and his friends signifies a renewed interest in the temple's religious function as opposed to its social function, then of course I am. If, on the other hand, you're suggesting that I had anything to do with it, then you're mistaken. I never meddle in temple politics."

"Oh, I'm not saying you campaigned for him, but don't try to tell me you're not happy he won."

"All right." the rabbi said good-humoredly, "I won't." He had found over the years that it was pointless to argue with the perpetually dissatisfied Mr. Tizzik.

"And don't kid yourself about any religious revival. Rabbi. Organization and ordinary politics did it. For over a year now, Chet Kaplan has been holding these At Homes every Wednesday evening—"

"I’ve never been to one."

"No?" Tizzik was frankly incredulous. "Well, take a small town like Barnard's Crossing. What can you do of an evening? There's the Friday night service at the temple, and you know half the people come just because it's a place to pass the time. Saturday nights, maybe you go out to dinner or a movie, and that's pretty much it. So when Kaplan started these At Homes, it was something to do, a place where you could meet people. You'd have a cup of coffee or a glass of beer and a couple of doughnuts—"

"But what do you do there, Mr. Tizzik?"

"Talk— mostly about the temple because it's a common interest, we discuss religion. Everybody is an expert on that. Sometimes. Kaplan will have somebody come to give a little lecture, he's got a friend from New Hampshire, Rabbi Mezzik—" He laughed. "I told him once we ought to start a vaudeville team. Mezzik and Tizzik, well, this Rabbi Mezzik, he goes in for meditation, he talks on Judaism and other religions like Christianity and Buddhism and how they relate to our religion."

"And then Chester Kaplan tops it off with a political speech?"

"Oh no, nothing crude like that. But he has this group that are into this meditation business with him, the guys that were on his slate for board of directors, they're like an inner circle. Sometimes, I understand, they go up-country to a camp they rent for a couple of days, and have all kinds of discussions, and pray, for all I know, because this Rabbi Mezzik, he's involved in it. But then the rest, those who came because it was something to do, well most felt where their host was running for president, they ought to give him their vote, then just before the election, the inner-circle guys, they phoned everybody who had ever attended a meeting, they got the names from a guest book Chet has you sign."

Rabbi Small nodded. "Yes, I can see where that might be effective. But let me suggest another possibility, as in all small towns, there's only one synagogue here in Barnard's Crossing because the Jewish community isn't big enough to support more than one. So it was established as a Conservative temple in order that the Orthodox on one side and the Reform Jews on the other can both feel not too uncomfortable. It's a compromise. My guess is that the Conservatives have a clear majority, but there are shades of opinion among them running from almost Orthodox to almost Reform. Most years it has been two men from the middle, two Conservatives, who were running against each other. This year, the other candidate, Mr. Golding, was definitely of the Reform wing. So the Orthodox and the near-Orthodox and most of the straight Conservatives voted for Mr. Kaplan. It was probably as simple as that."

When they reached the rabbi's car, a sudden thought occurred to him. "Whom did you vote for, Mr. Tizzik?"

Tizzik smiled deprecatingly. "Look, Rabbi, I drank his beer and I ate his doughnuts. So what could I do? I voted for Kaplan, at least, I know that when I come to say Kaddish like tonight, Chet Kaplan will be there, and if necessary he can lead the prayers."

Since it was Akiva Rokeach's first conference with the rebbe. Baruch, the gabbe, f elt he should instruct him on how he was to behave. "You understand, Akiva, that with the rebbe one doesn't argue," he said severely. "Reb Mendel is a zaddik, that is to say a holy man, like a saint." Baruch was a small, stout man, balding, with grizzled hair pushed back from a high forehead where a prominent blue vein pulsated noticeably when he was angry, he held the last half-inch of an unfiltered cigarette between nicotine-stained thumb and forefinger, took a final puff, and then regretfully dropped it in an ashtray where it continued to smolder, he was a nervous, irritable man, but as the gabbe, or secretary and general factotum to the rebbe, he was important. Only through him could one get in to see the rebbe. "Even when the rebbe seems to make a mistake," he continued, "as when you think he has misquoted during his discourse on the Law, you do not point it out or contradict him. Instead, you should ponder the reason why Reb Mendel deliberately misquoted." He paused to light another cigarette. "Most of all, when he renders a verdict, you accept it without protest."

"I understand," said Akiva Rokeach humbly.

The vein in the gabbe's forehead throbbed at the interruption. "For he has the Insight, you understand, and it is not to be expected that his thought will be like yours."

This time Akiva merely inclined his head in acquiescence, although he had been associated with the group for more than half a year, it would be the first time he would be seeing Reb Mendel in his study alone, and he did not want to jeopardize the opportunity by irritating the gabbe.

Baruch looked at the young man standing before him in frank disapproval— of his long hair, of his unruly blond beard, of his patched blue jeans stuffed into heavy boots. "You have a kvitl?" he demanded sourly, and when Akiva did not seem to understand, he translated impatiently, "A request, a written request. You don't expect the rebbe to wait while you explain, do you?"

"Oh, oh yes. I have it here." "And apidyon?"

Akiva drew out a five-dollar bill from his wallet and presented it, a token in advance of his gratitude to the rebbe for the privilege of talking with him in private. Baruch glanced at it and made a notation in his book.

"Wait here and I will see if the rebbe can see you now." He knocked on the door of the study, waited a moment and then entered, closing the door carefully behind him, he returned shortly and motioned the young man to enter.

Akiva had never been so close to Reb Mendel before, at Ihefarbrengen, the festive gatherings, as the newest member of the group, he had to remain on the fringe, and when the zaddik expounded Torah and philosophy after the third meal on the Sabbath, he had been at the extreme foot of the communal table, separated from him by almost the length of the hall.

Now Reb Mendel sat tall in his thronelike chair behind a large carved walnut desk, he was thirty? forty? forty-five? It was hard to tell, the large spade beard was beginning to gray, but the hand that occasionally stroked it was that of a young man.

"Ah, our young Viking," Reb Mendel murmured, and nodded to a chair beside the desk.