"You mean they couldn't change the cover at the last minute?"
"It's possible. I suppose." Ish-Kosher said cautiously. "I don't know enough about the printing business or the magazine business, but what would they gain?"
"Maybe they figure we're about to break the case, and it will give them a journalistic scoop. I don't like to think that there might be a leak in our outfit, Chaim."
"Believe me. Avner, the only ones in my organization that know about this case. I can trust absolutely. You have nothing to fear from that quarter. I'm sure it's just a coincidence."
"It'd better be."
Stedman saw the picture in the magazine rack in the hotel lobby. He bought a copy of the magazine and took it up to his room. He. too, wondered why it should appear at just this time. Was it part of a subtle campaign to revive interest in the matter? Was it intended to arouse public indignation? Would articles on the subject of the explosion begin appearing in the daily press? He thought of going down to the editorial offices of the magazine and making inquiries. Then it occurred to him that his very inquiry might arouse curiosity and start an investigation where none was planned. But if it should be part of a campaign, and he did nothing to scotch it, then...
He decided that he needed someone to talk to; that he was going around in circles; that he needed a normal, healthy mind to look at the situation calmly and objectively.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Gittel drove up Friday early enough to help Miriam prepare dinner.
"Really, Gittel. it was kind of you, but I can manage all right by myself."
"Look. Miriam, with me you don't have to stand on ceremony. I don't want to interfere. With my experience with hundreds and hundreds of families where there was a daughter-in-law and a mother-in-law living in the same apartment, no one had to tell me that there is no kitchen big enough for two women. My idea was to just sit quietly and keep you company." But she made suggestions. "An onion in the soup, Miriam. Always cook an onion in the soup. Uri says it makes the soup taste like homemade." To Miriam's objection that David did not like onions, she answered. "But an onion— that's the whole beauty of the soup. And we don't leave it in. We just cook with it. It gives to the soup a perfume." And later, at the dinner table, when the rabbi praised the soup, she managed to catch Miriam's eve and nod an I-told-you-so at her.
"No, Miriam, the fish you don't grind it. You chop it. In
America I know women grind the fish like they grind the liver because it's easier that way. I understand that in America they even have a grinder that works by electricity, so all you do is drop it in and press a button. But when you grind, it comes out like a paste and cooks hard." She rummaged around in the cabinets and found the chopper and a large wooden bowl which she set on her lap, and in spite of her initial protestations, she was soon chopping away rhythmically "to show how you're supposed to do it." While she chopped, she talked— of the owner of their apartment, whom she had visited only last week and who was getting along nicely with her sister; of the new supervisor in her department, whom she was not sure she was going to like; of Sarah Adoumi. whom she had stopped off to visit for a few minutes at Hadassah before coming and about whose treatment she had grave doubts— unconsciously accelerating the rhythm of her chopping when she mentioned anything that annoyed her.
But most of all. she talked of her son. Uri, and then she chopped at a furious pace to express a kind of bewildered disappointment in him. "He is tall like his father, and handsome. That is not just my opinion as a mother. You will see for yourself when he comes. And popular. The girls are all crazy over him. He could have his pick. And he gets involved with a girl from a poor family. Tunisians or Moroccans or something like that, one or the other. They claim there is a difference, but I could never see it. And she's dark as an Arab. too. And suddenly, he becomes religious because her family is very observant. That kind always are. She even has an exemption from serving in the Army because she's religious. Uri claims she wanted to go, but her father wouldn't let her. Maybe. If it's true, then she shows more respect for her parents than he does for his. He even prays every morning, with phylacteries. How could it happen? He was raised in an enlightened home."
"My David prays every morning."
"Even now? I thought you said—"
"He is thinking of changing his profession, not his religion." said Miriam.
"Well, a rabbi has to; it's his business. And now he's got into the habit, I suppose." It was plain that she did not regard her nephew's example as conclusive proof of the validity of the practice. "And now he talks of going into a religious kibbutz when he gets out of the Army. You know what that means? He'll have a child every year and he'll be a farmer all his life."
"Don't you approve of kibbutz life. Gittel?"
"Of course. It is one of our great sociological contributions. In the old days it was necessary to the development of the country. But things are different now." When Miriam did not seem to understand, she said. "I mean, now that the country is established, it is no longer necessary. He could be a doctor or an engineer or a scientist. He has a fine mind." And when Miriam still did not seem to understand, she said impatiently. "Is it so strange that a mother should want for her son. not an easier life, but a chance to realize his fullest potential?"
It seemed to bother Gittel, so Miriam did not pursue the subject but retreated to neutral ground. "Do you think he'll bring his girl?"
"I spoke to him on the phone yesterday. He said not. Her father objected; he did not think it proper. That will give you some idea of the kind of upbringing she's had. They are, after all. Orientals."
"Aren't you anxious to see her?"
"This pleasure I can wait on."
In the early evening the rabbi went to the synagogue, and when he came home after the service, the candles were already lit and the table set with the two braided Sabbath loaves and the wine decanter and glasses beside the rabbi's plate at the head of the table. The women were puttering in the kitchen with last-minute preparations for the meal, and the rabbi paced up and down the living-room floor humming a Chassidic melody as they waited for Uri.
"Will he be in uniform?" Jonathan asked Gittel.
"What else?"
"And will he have his gun with him?"
"He is an officer and so does not carry a gun."
"Oh." Jonathan was so obviously disappointed that she hastily added. "He carries a revolver strapped to his waist. He will probably be wearing it."
The minutes stretched out to a quarter of an hour and then half an hour, and Miriam noted that her husband glanced at his watch occasionally as he paced the floor. She was on the point of asking Gittel if perhaps they ought not begin, when they heard the outer door open and close. Then their doorbell rang, and Jonathan ran to open it, and there stood Uri.
He was all his mother had said he was. He was tall and bronzed and carried himself with assurance. With Jonathan he made an instant hit— the uniform, the boots, the beret, and. above all, the gun in a holster on his hip. With the rabbi he shook hands when he was introduced, but Miriam he kissed heartily on the lips. "A pretty girl you kiss like a pretty girl." he explained. "You do not mind. David?" With his mother he acted as though he had last seen her only an hour ago. Out of deference to Miriam, he spoke in English, a heavily accented English where the words seemed to be formed deep in the throat.
"So did you have a good time at the conference last week?" he greeted his mother.
"To a conference you don't go for good times," she said reprovingly.