Stanley Elkin - The Rabbi of Lud

“So many?” I demanded. “A woman without children? An unmarried woman who, except for her parents, leaves no survivors? No sisters or brothers? Not an uncle, not an aunt? A distant cousin even? With no mishpocheh to speak of save the general, at-large, human family we all of us are?

“ ‘Ah, then, Rabbi,’ you say, ‘then we’re her survivors.’

“Well, yes, but so many? Lud’s not such an easy place to reach if you’ve never been here before and don’t know the way. What’s today, Tuesday? An ordinary day of business. But think, think. Rosh Hashanah wasn’t a week ago even. Yom Kippur’s four days off. Two days you closed the store. Four more and you lose another day. Is business so good then? So many? Why? You know, tell me why.

“ ‘Well, but Rabbi,’ you say, ‘she was in her prime.’ ”

All of them were crying. I swear it. All of them were. (Not old stony-face Connie. Not my wife, not Shelley, even if she was one of the Chaverot! Oh, no, not Connie and Shelley, who seemed, in their bubble of smugness, distanced as Hershorn. But the rest of them, yes.)

“Of course she was. And it’s a terrible thing when you’re cut down in your prime. Well, it is. It happens, but it’s terrible.

“Think,” I coaxed, “what is it we say when we hear of the death of someone we did not ourselves know? What do we ask? After we question the circumstances? What do we say? ‘How old was this person?’ And, if we’re told sixty-eight, sixty-nine, anything within shooting distance of the biblical threescore-and-ten, we say, ‘Well, at least they lived a full life.’ Shaving a year or so here, there, up, down, plus or minus, but still in the ballpark. And it’s true. Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, is within the parameters. Low-normal perhaps, but God is kept honest. This is the acceptable numerology of death.

“Joan Cohen, cut down in her prime, did not live a full life.

“Or was it the manner of her death, then? That she was shot? Not in the course of things, not, I mean, violently. Not in a rape or holdup, not in a serial killing or to keep her from testifying, but in a straight path on an ordinary day in a green pasture beside still waters in a valley of the shadow of death — taken out out of season in a grotesque hunting accident.

“But tell me, what death, shaved point here, there, up, down, plus or minus, isn’t grotesque? Is there a doctor in the house? Tell me, Doctor, what death isn’t? You tell me.

“Still, so many?

“Or doesn’t it matter how she died? Isn’t it rather when she died? Isn’t that what it comes down to? When all is said and done?”

There wasn’t as much crying as before. Here and there a few were still inconsolable. Joan’s parents, of course. Fanny Tupperman, Elaine Iglauer. (And Shull was still sobbing at a pretty good clip.) But most of them were quiet now, interested. Behind their sharp looks and open glowers, Shelley was, Connie.

“Because what’s today, Tuesday? Because Rosh Hashanah wasn’t a week ago even, and Yom Kippur’s four days off.

“Because she wasn’t inscribed in the Book of Life, and that scares us. It sure scares me.

“Because Rosh Hashanah was Thursday. Because Sunday’s the Day of Atonement. Because she had ten days. All the ten days of Teshuvah. Because she had ten days of repentance before it was sealed. The Book of Life she prayed and petitioned a loving and forgiving God to inscribe her in. Who wouldn’t do it. Who heard what He heard and still wouldn’t do it. Who must have heard her. Who heard her, all right. You recall what yesterday was like, the crisp weather, Monday’s fine, clean, clear, open air. You could have heard her yourself.

“Here’s the picture:

“All Teshuvah she had, but this was the first good day, and even if the pastures weren’t all that green now — you know what the weather’s been like — still, the foliage was fine, and the still waters. And she must have been feeling pretty good — what was there to fear? it was a clear day; you could see forever — and may even have brought a bit of picnic to nosh — say an apple, a hunk of cheese, say, say a heel of bread — to restore her soul, to dull her appetite if she became peckish.

“So she put forth her argument, laid out her reasons, her bill of particulars, covering the ground like a Philadelphia lawyer, pulling out the stops, actually appealing to His sense, if He had one, of shame:

“ ‘But I’m not even married, O Lord our God. I want to settle down, I do. I want to settle down and make a good Jewish home. I’m still waiting for Mr. Right. Too many marriages end in divorce nowadays, O Baruch-Ataw-Adonoi. I want mine to work. And I’d make a swell mom. As I’ve tried to be a good daughter.

“ ‘And what about my parents? It would kill my pop, and that would kill my mom. They’re great people, they never hurt anybody. Why drag two innocent people into this? For what? What for, O Blessed-Art-Thou? What could possibly be in it for You? What would You be getting? A woman without children? An unmarried woman who, except for her parents, leaves no survivors? No sisters or brothers? Not an uncle, not an aunt? A distant cousin even? With no mishpocheh to speak of save the general, at-large, human family we all of us are? What do you need it?

“ ‘Oh, and I have a nice voice, Thou-Art-God, and know many songs, and this year resolve to learn more.

“ ‘Oh, oh, and I keep myself kempt, and am still in my prime, so how about it, Holy-Holy-Holy, inscribe me in the Book of Life for another year. How about it, what do You say, Lord-Is-My-Shepherd?’

“He said ‘BOOM!’ And ‘BOOM!’ And ‘BOOM!’ again, and Joan Cohen dropped where she stood like a load too heavy to bear any longer.

“We spoke of keeping God honest? Honest? Because don’t think this is like your car breaking down the minute the warranty runs out. This isn’t like that. This was yesterday she died. New Year’s was Thursday. Today’s Tuesday. The Book of Life isn’t sealed until Yom Kippur. Yom Kippur is Sunday. So what did she have? Until Sunday. Counting from Rosh Hashanah, He’d already given her five days. He’d split the difference. She was midway. In a sort of time warp. The warranty hadn’t even started yet. She hadn’t even driven it off the lot!

“So honest? My God, my friends, He’s positively fussy !”

Shull had stopped weeping. Elaine Iglauer, Fanny Tupperman. Even the Cohens. In their absolute grief these five had been a beat or so behind the rest of the congregation all morning, vaguely aged and weighted, like actors unsure of their blocking, or as if they moved chest deep in water. As for the rest, they weren’t just interested now, they were fascinated and couldn’t wait to hear what I would say next. Except for Shelley, except for Connie. And me. Except for me. The Rabbi of Lud. I was weeping. I was. Not fascinated, not even interested. Only penitent, only asking for my atonement, and began to recite bits of prayer I remembered from the Yom Kippur service.

“We have trespassed,” I prayed, “we have been faithless … we have spoken basely … we have done violence … we have forged lies … we have counseled evil.

“For the sin which we have committed before Thee under compulsion, or of our own will.

“And for the sin which we have committed before Thee in hardening of the heart.

“For the sin which we have committed before Thee with utterance of the lips and the folly of the mouth.

“For all these, O God of Forgiveness, forgive us, pardon us, grant us remission.”

I’d forgotten a lot, but spoke the fragments I remembered as best I could. So, I thought, here I am, a rabbi myself now, and still pull — my sculpted, fashioned, modified Yom Kippur — the shortest haphtarah passage of the year. And went on with my tally.