"This sure ain't no Fifth Avenue, eh. Katz?" said Markevitch.
"Fifth Avenue it ain't, or even Boylston Street or Washington Street, but look how little capital you need to start a business here."
The rabbi thought they might be tired and steered them to a nearby cafe. They ordered coffee and looked about them at the occupants of the other tables, several of whom were reading the newspapers and magazines.
"They come here to read?" asked Katz.
"They come to meet their friends, to read, to talk, to break the monotony of the day over a cup of coffee." the rabbi explained.
"I guess they never heard of customer turnover here." said Markevitch, putting down his cup. "Where to now, Rabbi?"
The rabbi nodded to the waitress. She came over. "Anything else, gentlemen? Then three coffees— three lira.""
"I thought we might take a look at the university now," said the rabbi, reaching in his pocket.
Markevitch put a restraining hand on his arm. "No. Rabbi, when V. S. Markevitch eats. V. S. Markevitch pays. How much is it?"
"No, Mr. Markevitch," said the rabbi, and he clinked some coins into the waitress's outstretched hand. "You are guests, visitors to the country, and I am a resident."
At the university the partners expanded. This was more like it. They had been obviously disappointed in what they had seen so far. The Old City had been quaint, to be sure, and the people picturesque which was interesting in the movies and picture postcards, but up close, the quaint and the picturesque were dirty and ragged and smelly. The Western Wall— well, it was just a wall. They had not felt the anticipated magic of it. And Zion Square, too, was old and shabby. not like the Old City. to be sure, but also certainly not what they had been led to expect from the slides and movies that were shown at fund-raising meetings they had attended. But the university — new. modern buildings, wide plazas, open and spacious surroundings, this was what they had expected the whole city, indeed the whole country, to be like. Over the years, they had bought Israeli bonds and made contributions. Now. at last, they could see that their money had been put to good use. They walked about, breathing deeply of the clean, fresh air as though it had been generated by the new buildings. They stopped and conscientiously read each of the bronze plaques as they came across them.
"Donated by the Isaacson Family. Montreal. Through
the generosity of Arthur Bornstein. Poughkeepsie
Established in memory of Sadie Aptaker
The Harry G. Altshuler Room
Morris D. Marcus Memorial Library
of Industrial Design"
They read aloud and commented. "You think that's maybe the Marcus from the Innersole Marcuses?"
"Look. Katz. Montgomery Levy from Rhodesia. Imagine, from Rhodesia."
"They got Jews there, too. Here's one from Dublin, Ireland"
Over a cool drink in their hotel room, the partners discussed the day. "To tell the truth. Katz. I was a little disappointed in our rabbi. I mean he's a rabbi, so I should think that every time he went to the Wall, he'd want to say a prayer. By his own admission, he's only been there a few times. That don't seem right, living right here in Jerusalem, and him a rabbi. And why was he so snooty about saying a prayer for us? That's his job. isn't it? To me, it seemed like he was tired of the rabbi business."
"So he's on vacation. The rabbi business is like any other business. You go on vacation, you want a rest from it."
V. S. shot him a glance. "You sure it's a vacation?"
"What then?"
Markevitch dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper that could be distinctly heard through the closed door by anyone who happened to pass by in the corridor. "Maybe he's not planning to come back. Maybe he plans to stay here. That's why he didn't want to say a prayer for us. It's like we're no longer his congregation. You remember how in the coffeehouse he insisted on paying. Now when does a rabbi ever put his hand in his pocket? But you remember what he said how we're the guests and he's the resident?
You remember?"
Katz inclined his head in agreement. "You got a point there."
Markevitch drained his glass and sat back in beaming admiration of his own perspicacity. "Mark my words. Katz. he's not coming back. And I'll tell you something else, if he doesn't come back and if Rabbi Deutch stays on, V. S. Markevitch for one. wouldn't lose any sleep."
"And how did it go?" asked Miriam.
The rabbi did not answer immediately. He frowned as though trying to find the words with which to frame his reply. "You know, it's curious." he said at last, "you live here for a while— and it doesn't have to be a long time— and you start feeling like a native, at least toward tourists. You find yourself embarrassed by them, and you resent their failure to understand what they see, You resent their patronizing airs; you resent the comparisons they make with America, the ones they voice and the ones you sense they feel even when they don't say anything; you resent their attitude that they own the country because of the contributions they've made—"
"You're really talking like a native."
"I suppose I am. Maybe I'm beginning to think and feel like one."
She rose and walked over to the table to busy herself rearranging the books, the vase of flowers, the ashtrays that were on it. With her back to him. she said. "I get the impression. David, that you're hinting that you'd like to remain here."
"I think I might." he said quietly. "At least for a while. Would you mind?"
"I don't know. It would depend. What would you do— I mean about making a living? You couldn't be a rabbi here."
"I know."
She turned around and faced him. "David, are you tired of being a rabbi? Are you planning to give it up?"
He began to laugh. "It's funny: rabbi comes to the Holy Land and loses his religion. Of course I knew, even before I went to the seminary, that I couldn't be the kind of rabbi my grandfather was in the little shtetl in Russia where he lived or for that matter in the Orthodox community that he came to in America. He was a judge, applying his knowledge of the Talmud to settle the problems of his congregation and his community. That was impossible in America. But I thought I could be a rabbi like my father, a leader in the community who steered his congregation along the lines of basic Judaism and kept them from straying into the romantic Christianity that surrounded them. It involved certain traditional practices, set prayers to be said at certain times of the day, that were not in keeping with the modern world, but they had the merit of keeping us different from our neighbors, and so they were a cohesive force. Well, since coming here to Israel. I have to begun to think that they were the religious practices of the Exile, the galut. I felt the spirit of the Sabbath most on our first day here when I did not go to the synagogue and again at that nonreligious kibbutz. They had worked hard all week, and on the Sabbath they put on clean clothes and feasted and rested, and it renewed their strength for the coming week. Somehow. I felt that was the way it was intended to be. It seemed to me that here, in our own land, our traditional practices had become a kind of mumbo jumbo, useful in the Exile, but meaningless here. I could see it in the wondering eyes of Itzical's little boy at the kibbutz as he watched me praying in my shawl and phylacteries. To bind a black leather strap around my arm in a certain way and around my forehead, to wrap a special fringed cloth around me in order to recite words that had been written for me hundreds of years ago— that was useful in America to remind me that I am a Jew. But here in Israel. I don't need anything to remind me. What is my work in Barnard's Crossing but purveying religious hocus-pocus— marrying people, burying them, saying an appropriate prayer at all kinds of occasions? That's what Markevitch and Katz expected of me today." Hands in his trouser pockets, he began to pace the floor.