“Kindness is the beginning and the end of the law.”
Buck was pleased the old man’s speech wasn’t impaired.
“Molly dear, are you just going to stand there? Please call Sophie.”
“Tea,” his wife exclaimed. “I told the doctor we’d have tea, and here I am dawdling.”
“Maybe he’d like something stronger,” the rabbi said in a voice too loud.
“You’re not having any wine, Mordecai.”
Buck smiled. “Thank you, but tea will be fine.”
Molly went to the side of the fireplace and pulled a cord. Within seconds a stout woman wearing an apron entered the room.
“Sophie, bring us tea and some of those honey cakes.”
“Dr. Thomson,” the rabbi said, “I understand you took my good friend Jacob Greenwald and his wife to Columbia for treatment. Such a fine man. How is he doing? Well, I hope.”
Buck weighed the consequences of telling them the truth or hedging.
“I regret to tell you things didn’t go well. We were ambushed by highwaymen on the way to Columbia and Mr. Greenwald was killed.”
Molly collapsed into a chair, her face gone pale.
“Sarah and her mother?” Asa asked, his voice trembling.
“They’re fine,” Buck assured them and proceeded to describe the trip in general terms. He held back any mention of the journey to Charleston, except to say Ruth had elected to stay with old friends in Columbia, while Sarah returned to attend to legal matters. He didn’t elaborate on their nature, unsure how much he was at liberty to disclose.
“Jacob was a close friend and a valuable member of our community.” The rabbi shook his head. “But, as it is said, life is only on loan to man. Death is the creditor who will one day claim it.” He looked up. “Molly, send word to Reuben Moscovitz. He can call a minion to say Kaddish for Jacob.”
Sophie came into the room with a large silver tray.
“And now,” the rabbi said, “we have tea.”
While Molly was serving the hot beverage, Buck motioned Asa to the side. “How’s your back?”
“It’s healing, Buck. I’m fine.”
“Do you want me to take a look at it before I go?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
They migrated to the center of the room. Buck surveyed the walls which were lined with bookcases, all overflowing with bound volumes, loose manuscripts and scrolls.
“You have quite a library here, rabbi.” He noted the writing table was covered with papers, some in a strange, indecipherable script, others in English and another language written in the Latin alphabet. “And you are an author as well?”
“Judah ha-Levi once said, my pen is my harp and my lyre, my library is my garden and my orchard.”
Asa smiled at Buck. “He dictates and I write it down for him. He has to spell a lot of words for me, words I’ve never heard before, but they sound wonderful, Buck. And he’s teaching me what they mean. Really mean.”
Buck had never before seen the glow he saw now on his friend’s face.
The rabbi smiled crookedly. “You can get more water from a deep well than from ten shallow ones. And the Talmud tells us, much have I learned from my teachers, more from my colleagues, but most from my students.”
Buck wasn’t sure he fully understood all of what the teacher was telling him, but he felt it was profound.
He accepted a second cup of tea but politely declined a third. It was clear to him that the elderly invalid was tiring. After Buck thanked the rabbi and his wife for their hospitality and acknowledged their invitation to return, Asa saw him to the door.
“You seem content here,” Buck commented.
“I am, for now. I wish I’d met the rabbi sooner, but—” his voice thickened “—he doesn’t have too much time left.”
“What then? What do you want to do?”
“Somehow, someday, somewhere I want to get back to farming, work with the land and live a life of peace. I feel strong again, Buck, and the rabbi’s helped me accept what happened. I still get angry sometimes, but he’s taught me not to be bitter.”
“How does he do that?”
Asa laughed for the first time. “I don’t know exactly, except that he lets me talk about anything, even things I’d be ashamed to tell anyone else. He doesn’t judge. He just listens.”
“I’m happy for you,” Buck said, with more envy than he was willing to admit.
Chapter TWENTY
At the hotel Buck was handed a sealed envelope by the clerk at the front desk. He didn’t recognize the writing, but the lavender color of the stationery indicated it was from a woman. He knew only one in the area. It took monumental strength for him not to tear it open on the spot. At the table in the dining room, however, while a waiter was pouring him coffee, he used the butter knife to open the correspondence.
Sarah had sent a list of physicians. He was disappointed to find no personal note with it, but a moment’s consideration told him it would have been unwise of her to do so in case the letter went astray. Nevertheless he found himself studying her writing, something personal of hers.
He reviewed the names. Six doctors. He was surprised he wasn’t familiar with any of them, but he hadn’t lived here in five years and a lot had happened during that time.
He’d also compiled a list of his own and wondered how many of these former colleagues were still in Charleston, How many had served in the war? How many were not yet home? And how many might never return?
For the next two days he rode Gypsy from the Ashley to the Cooper Rivers and up and down the peninsula, covering all of the port city. He was able to find two of the dozen names on his list and four of the names Sarah had given him. In every office he was greeted hospitably and given a polite hearing, but the result in each case was essentially the same.
“You have a great deal of valuable experience in surgery, doctor, and we can certainly use that. With so many wounded men coming home, there’s an unlimited need for good surgeons and I’ll be pleased to use you in that capacity. I must tell you though that I’m not presently able to offer you a permanent position, because I’m waiting for my nephew—” or my brother or my son or my uncle or my best friend “—to return from the war, and of course my first obligation is to offer him a place here. If you’d like to fill in until their return, or if you’d like to wait a few months and contact me again . . .”
But Buck wasn’t interested in a temporary position. He wanted to put down roots and establish some semblance of a normal life.
He visited the medical college where he’d received his training and was cordially greeted by the dean, but it soon became apparent he was primarily interested in putting Buck on the staff to teach surgery, especially amputations.
Buck thanked him, promised to consider the opportunity and left with no intention of ever coming back. He’d seen enough severed limbs.
Disappointed and disheartened by his lack of professional prospects, he compiled another list of physicians and wrote a series of letters, posting them to the last addresses he was aware of, uncertain if they’d ever be delivered or if he’d hear back from them. On an impulse, he also sent a letter to his old family friend, Dr. Thaddeus Meyer, inquiring about possible opportunities in Columbia, in spite of his resolution never to return there.