A neighbor who was interviewed said he understood the victim had been working on something that would have been of great value to Arab farmers.
An editorial heatedly attacked the psychology of the terrorist which led him to regard his nefarious attacks on innocent civilians as waging war.
The rabbi returned the newspaper to the rack, paid for his coffee, and left the cafe. He had overcome his momentary impulse to hurry home to search the apartment on the chance that a small black plastic box had been left there. He wondered if Miriam knew about the explosion and whether she was frightened or concerned. And if not, if he should tell her. But as he walked along, he realized that she was sure to know. She and Gittel had gone to the supermarket to shop. People would be talking about it, and even though the talk would be in Hebrew. Gittel would understand. And Gittel would tell her and. if necessary, calm her. It was two o'clock now, and on the streets people hurried as though they all were late for an important appointment. The stores were either closed or closing, the proprietors obviously also in a hurry. On one corner there was a booth where flowers were being sold; only here was the shopkeeper still doing business. But he, too. was busily trying to service the three or four customers who were waiting impatiently. The rabbi joined the group and bought a bunch of carnations. Then he too hurried home.
Miriam and Jonathan were there when he arrived, but Gittel had gone. "Uri usually gets a weekend pass," Miriam explained. "Naturally, she wants to be home to receive him. I suggested that she try to get word to him through the Army people to come to Jerusalem instead of Tel Aviv, but I guess even Gittel couldn't manage that."
"Did she try?" asked the rabbi.
"No. as a matter of fact. I gather she considers it unpatriotic to bother the Army with unimportant requests. The Army is sort of sacrosanct over here."
"It must be if she didn't try to manage it." he said dryly. "Oh, but she's a good soul. David."
He looked surprised. "But of course. I think she's grand. I don't mind her managing. She comes of a long line of matriarchal managers, all the way from Devorah to Golda. It's a tradition with us. In the shtetl, while the men studied, the women ran things." He smiled. "You’ve got a little of it yourself, you know. I'm only sorry Gittel is not with us to celebrate our first Sabbath in Israel." He handed her the flowers and kissed her. "A happy Sabbath."
He wanted to ask if she had heard the news, but Jonathan came running into the room. "I was in school. Daddy, and I'm going every day— with Shaouli from upstairs."
"That's fine. Jonathan." He touched his hair affectionately. "And how did you like school?"
"Oh, it was all right." Then with special excitement: "You know, the kids here, they don't know how to throw a ball. They kick it. With their feet."
"Well, that's mighty interesting." He wanted to say more. He wanted to question his son about the school. He wanted to ask Miriam how she had spent the day. But he could not; he was too tired.
"I walked all over the city," he began by way of explanation.
"Why don't you go and lie down for a while, David, and catch a nap? I did." Miriam said, "and I felt wonderful afterward."
"Yes, I think I will." He hesitated. "Did you hear about—"
She quickly turned to make sure Jonathan was out of earshot. "Yes, but let's not discuss it now. Go and lie down."
He had no sooner kicked off his shoes than he fell asleep. It seemed only a few minutes later when Miriam awakened him. "You'd better get up now. David. It's our first Sabbath in Jerusalem, and I think we should eat together. Besides. I don't want to keep Jonathan up too late."
He sat up with a jolt. "What time is it?"
"It's seven o'clock."
"But the evening service, it's over by now."
"I didn't have the heart to waken you. You were sleeping so soundly. It's the long plane ride. Our internal clocks are out of kilter."
He rose and washed, splashing cool water on his face. He felt refreshed as he came into the dining room and saw that the table was set, the candles lit, and his flowers in a vase in the center of the table. He sat down at the head of the table and filled the kiddush cup.
Then he rose and began the ancient prayer, "On the sixth day".
Chapter Fourteen
Almost from the day he arrived in Barnard's Crossing, Rabbi Hugo Deutch had been involved in a series of conferences with Cantor Zimbler and Henry Selig, the chairman of the Ritual Committee. The latter had been appointed to this important post by the president largely on the basis of the speed with which he read the prayers. Bert Raymond had gone to the minyan to say Kaddish on the anniversary of his father's death and there had noticed Selig. "He's the first one to sit down at Shemon Esrah. The first time I saw him. I figured he must be skipping like I do, but then I sat next to him, and he really reads the stuff. His lips practically vibrate. He must know it by heart."
As a matter of fact, he did know the daily prayers by heart, and that was the full extent of his knowledge of Jewish ritual. He interposed no objections, therefore, to Rabbi Deutch's plans. The cantor was a harder nut to crack. He was entirely agreeable to any suggestion that expanded his part in the service, but when Rabbi Deutch suggested that a particular prayer might be dispensed with, especially if it called for an extended musical rendition, he would say plaintively, "But. Rabbi, this prayer establishes the mood for the whole service." Or sometimes he pleaded on purely personal grounds — that it was the best solo in his repertoire: "I sing the first part of this falsetto, and then the next part in my regular voice, then falsetto again, then the regular voice again. It's just like a duet, and the folks here are crazy about it. There hasn't been a single Friday evening service when someone didn't come to me afterward to compliment me on that particular prayer."
But Rabbi Deutch knew his own mind and had had long experience in dealing with temperamental cantors. "Look. Cantor, there's one rule about running a successful Friday evening service program, and that is. keep it short and snappy. Remember, it's a week-in and week-out thing. If the service is long drawn out, the congregation gets tired, and first thing you know, they stop coming. It's got to be kept under an hour. Remember, they've had their evening meal, and they want to relax. So they hear you sing a little, and they sing a little; we have a couple of responsive readings to give them a feeling of the solemnity of the Sabbath; I give them a short sermon; the Amidah is a little interlude where they get a chance to get up and stretch their legs a bit; and then we close with a snappy Adon Olam and they go down to the vestry for tea and cake and general conversation. It's a nice evening's entertainment, and you'll find that the attendance will grow from week to week."
He had other ideas about improving the service, and on his first Friday night he managed to put them all together. As the congregation began to arrive and take their seats, they noticed that the high thronelike chairs on the dais on either side of the ark normally occupied by the rabbi and the cantor were empty. The service was scheduled to begin at eight o'clock and by a quarter of eight the congregation, anxious to see its new rabbi in action, had arrived and was seated. But still the seats on the dais remained empty.
The organ had been playing mood music, a series of mournful cadenzas in a minor kev, but at ten minutes to eight the sound suddenly shifted to the major in a swelling diapason as the door of the enrobing room opened and the rabbi appeared, majestic in black gown and silken prayer shawl, a high velvet yarmulke like a cantor's on his head. He paused a moment and then moved slowly up the steps of the dais and stood in front of the ark, his back to the congregation. He stood thus for a minute or two. his head slightly bowed, and then straightened up and walked to his seat beside the ark.