Ed McBain - The Empty Hours

“Sorry, Steve.”

“So your guess on what happened is that the rabbi went outside after services to clean up the mess. The killer surprised him, knifed him, made a mess of the alley, and then painted that J on the wall. Is that it?”

“I guess so, though —”

“What?”

“Well, there was a lot of blood leading right over to that wall, Steve. As if the rabbi had crawled there after he’d been stabbed.”

“Probably trying to get to the back door of the synagogue.”

“Maybe,” Grossman said. “One thing I can tell you. Whoever killed him must have been pretty much of a mess when he got home. No doubt about that.”

“Why do you say that?”

“That spattered paint all over the alley,” Grossman said. “It’s my guess that the rabbi threw those paint cans at his attacker.”

“You’re a pretty good guesser, Sam,’ Carella told him, grinning.

“Thanks,” Grossman said.

“Tell me something.”

“Yeah?”

“You ever solve any murders?”

“Go to hell,” Grossman said, and he hung up.

Alone with his wife that night in the living room of their apartment, Meyer tried to keep his attention off a television series about cops and on the various documents he had collected from Rabbi Solomon’s study in the synagogue. The cops on television were shooting up a storm, blank bullets flying all over the place and killing hoodlums by the score. It almost made a working man like Meyer Meyer wish for an exciting life of romantic adventure.

The romantic adventure of his life, Sarah Lipkin Meyer, sat in an easy chair opposite the television screen, her legs crossed, absorbed in the fictional derring-do of the policemen.

“Ooooh, get him!” Sarah screamed at one point, and Meyer turned to look at her curiously, and then went back to the rabbi’s books.

The rabbi kept a ledger of expenses, all of which had to do with the synagogue and his duties there. The ledger did not make interesting reading, and told Meyer nothing he wanted to know. The rabbi also kept a calendar of synagogue events and Meyer glanced through them reminiscently, remembering his own youth and the busy Jewish life centering around the synagogue in the neighborhood adjacent to his own. March twelfth, the calendar read, regular Sunday breakfast of the Men’ }s Club, Speaker, Harry Pine, director of Commission on International Affairs of American Jewish Congress, Topic: The Eichmann Case.

Meyer’s eye ran down the list of events itemized in Rabbi Solomon’s book:

March 12, 7:15p.m.

Youth Group meeting.

March 18, 9:30 a.m.

Bar Mitzvah services for Nathan Rothman. Kiddush after services. Open invitation to Center membership.

March 22, 8:45p.m.

Clinton Samuels. Assistant Professor of Philosophy in Education, Brandeis University, will lead discussion in “The Matter of Identity for the Jews in Modern America.”

March 26

Eternal Light Radio. “The Search” by Virginia Mazer, biographical script on Lillian Wald, founder of Henry Street Settlement in New York.

Meyer looked up from the calendar. “Sarah?” he said.

“Shhh, shhh, just a minute,” Sarah answered. She was nibbling furiously at her thumb, her eyes glued to the silent television screen. An ear-shattering volley of shots suddenly erupted, all but smashing the picture tube. The theme music came up, and Sarah let out a deep sigh and turned to her husband.

Meyer looked at her curiously, as if seeing her for the first time, remembering the Sarah Lipkin of long, long ago and wondering if the Sarah Meyer of today was very much different from that initial exciting image. “Nobody’s lips kin like Sarah’s lips kin,” the fraternity boys had chanted, and Meyer had memorized the chant, and investigated the possibilities, learning for the first time in his life that every cliché bears a kernel of folklore. He looked at her mouth now, pursed in puzzlement as she studied his face. Her eyes were blue, and her hair was brown, and she had a damn good figure and splendid legs, and he nodded in agreement with his youthful judgment.

“Sarah., do you feel any identity as a Jew in modern America?” he asked.

“What?” Sarah said.

“I said —”

“Oh, boy,” Sarah said. “What brought that on?”

“The rabbi, I guess.” Meyer scratched his bald pate. “I guess I haven’t felt so much like a Jew since — since I was confirmed, I guess. It’s a funny thing.”

“Don’t let it trouble you,” Sarah said gently. “You are a Jew.”

“Am I?” he asked, and he looked straight into her eyes.

She returned the gaze. “You have to answer that one for yourself,” she said.

“I know I — well, I get mad as hell thinking about this guy Finch. Which isn’t good, you know. After all, maybe he’s innocent.”

“Do you think so?”

“No. I think he did it. But is it me who thinks that, Meyer Meyer, Detective Second Grade? Or is it Meyer Meyer who got beat up by the goyim when he was a kid, and Meyer Meyer who heard his grandfather tell stories about pogroms, or who listened to the radio and heard what Hitler was doing in Germany, or who nearly strangled a German colonel with his bare hands just outside —”

“You can’t separate the two, darling,” Sarah said.

“Maybe you can’t. I’m only trying to say I never much felt like a Jew until this case came along. Now, all of a sudden ...” He shrugged.

“Shall I get your prayer shawl?” Sarah said.

“Wise guy,” Meyer said. He closed the rabbi’s calendar, and opened the next book on the desk. The book was a personal diary. He unlocked it, and began leafing through it.

Friday, January 6

Shabbat, Parshat Shemot. I lighted the candles at 4:24. Evening services were at 6:15. It has been a hundred years since the Civil Wars. We discussed the Jewish Community of the South, then and now.

It seems odd to me that I should have to familiarize the membership about the proper blessings over the Sabbath candles. Have we come so far toward forgetfulness?

Baruch ata adonai elohenu melech haolam asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav vitzivanu Vhadlick ner shel shabbat.

Blessed are Thou O Lord our God., King of the universe who hast sanctified us by Thy laws and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath Light.

Perhaps he is right. Perhaps the Jews are doomed.

January 20

I had hoped that the Maccabean festival would make us realize the hardships borne by the Jews 2,000 years ago in comparison to our good and easy lives today in a democracy. Today, we have the freedom to worship as we desire, but this should impose upon us the responsibility of enjoying that freedom. And yet, Hanukkah has come and gone, and it seems to me The Feast of Lights taught us nothing, gave us nothing more than a joyous holiday to celebrate. The Jews will die, he says.

February 2

I believe I am beginning to fear him. He shouted threats at me today, said that I, of all the Jews, would lead the way to destruction. I was tempted to call the police, but I understand he has done this before. There are those in the membership who have suffered his harangues and who seemed to feel he is harmless. But he rants with the fervor of a fanatic, and his eyes frighten me.

February 12

A member called today to ask me something about the dietary laws. I was forced to call the local butcher because I did not know the prescribed length of the hallaf, the slaughtering knife. Even the butcher, in jest, said to me that a real rabbi would know these things. I am a real rabbi. I believe in the Lord, my God, I teach His will and His law to His people. What need a rabbi know about shehitah, the art of slaughtering animals? Is it important to know that the slaughtering knife must be twice the width of the throat of the slaughtered animal, and no more than fourteen fingerbreadths in length? The butcher told me that the knife must be sharp and smooth, with no perceptible notches. It is examined by passing finger and fingernail over both edges of the blade before and after slaughtering. If a notch is found,, the animal is then unfit. Now I know. But is it necessary to know this? Is it not enough to love God, and to teach His ways? His anger continues to frighten me.