He wanted to talk the matter over with someone before seeing Miriam, but there was no one in town with whom he felt he could talk freely and openly unless it was—he could not help smiling—Hugh Lanigan, the pleasant, red-faced Irish chief of police. They had an honest, longstanding relationship, maybe, he thought wryly, because neither had anything to gain from the other. It struck him in a situation of this sort, where everyone in the congregation was on one side or the other, how isolated the rabbi was. Of course, there was Jacob Wasserman, who, as a sort of elder statesman of the congregation, tended to be above factions. They had always liked each other, and he respected the older man’s judgment and understanding. Impulsively he drove to his house.
Mrs. Wasserman was a motherly woman, who, when she saw who it was, urged him—even taking him by the arm—to come in, come in.
“It’s all right, Rabbi, so the rugs will get a little wet,” she said, as he scraped his shoes against the coco mat.
“Who is it?” her husband called from inside. “The rabbi? Come in, Rabbi, come in. It must be a serious matter to bring you out on such a night. But I’m happy you came. Lately I haven’t seen so much of you. It’s not so easy for me to get to the minvan these days. You know how it is. If the weather is not so good I stay in bed a little longer. Becker is here with me. He had supper here tonight. If it’s private you want to talk, he can keep my wife company in the kitchen. I wouldn’t be jealous. But if it’s temple business, then maybe you’d like him to hear, too.”
“Yes, I think it might be a good idea.” said the rabbi.
The old man led him into the living room, and his wife followed them. “Look, Becker, I got another visitor,” he called. Then to his wife. “So why don’t you get the rabbi a up of tea?”
“I have just seen Mr. Gorfinkle,” said the rabbi and told them what had transpired. He expected the news to come, frankly, as something of a bombshell. Instead, the men were surprisingly unmoved.
“You mean he threatened not to renew your contract in the fall?” asked Becker, as if to make sure he had all the facts straight.
“No. that he would recommend it be terminated now.”
“He can’t do that; you’ve got a contract. Besides, that’s something that the full board has to vote on.”
“So they pay him the remaining money,” said Wasserman with a shrug, “and if Gorfinkle has a majority, what difference does it make if it comes before the full board or not?”
The rabbi expected Becker to react belligerently. Instead, he looked at Wasserman and said, “Shall I tell him?”
Again the old man shrugged his shoulders. “What would be a better time?”
“In a way. Rabbi.” began Becker, “it’s funny you coming here tonight. You see, today Meyer Paff came to see me. It looks as if there’s going to be a split in the temple. And Paff wanted me and Wasserman to join him.”
“And did you agree?”
“For us it’s easy. Rabbi. As past presidents, we are both permanent members of the board. And to join another temple is just a matter of paying an extra membership fee. It’s like a donation. Even when I was president. I was a member of the synagogue in Lynn, and Jacob here is a member both in Lynn and Salem. But in the course of telling me what was on his mind, you came up for discussion. Paff asked me to approach you about coming over, on a long-term contract and at an increase in salary. That’s what I was discussing with Jacob just before you came in.”
The rabbi looked over at Wasserman, but the old man’s face was impassive. “I didn’t think I was so great a favorite of Mr. Paff s.” he said to Becker.
“Look. Rabbi. I won’t try to kid you. I’m sure that although
Paff appreciates your work here, his main object in making the offer is that he expects it will pull members. But what do you care if you’re bettering yourself?”
“And would I be bettering myself. Mr. Becker?”
“By three thousand dollars a year, and a long-term contract. Even if this row with Gorfinkle hadn’t occurred, you wouldn’t be sure that your contract would be renewed. I guess that’s bettering yourself. If you’re not sure, ask Mrs. Small, who buys the groceries.”
But the rabbi replied. “As things now stand. Mr. Becker. I am the rabbi of the Jews of Barnard’s Crossing. I am the rabbi of the community and not merely the rabbi of a particular temple. And that is the way I think of my function. A rabbi is not part of the temple furniture.”
“But the cantor—”
“The cantor is different. He needs a temple, or at least a congregation, in order to exercise his function. Can he sing to himself? But a rabbi does not. No doubt, if the community continues to grow, sooner or later a Reform temple will be established and a portion of our members will split away from us to join it. And no doubt, they will get a rabbi. But that break will be for ideological reasons and hence justified. Their rabbi will be the rabbi of the Reform Jews of Barnard’s Crossing, while I remain the rabbi of its Conservative Jews.”
“But congregations do split.” Becker insisted.
“All too often, perhaps. When the split was not on ideological grounds, it was apt to be geographical. Jews would begin moving out of one area into another, and because it was considered a breach of the Sabbath to ride to services, another temple would be set up in order to have a place of worship within walking distance of the new area. That, too, would be reasonable.
“But the split that you plan is neither ideological nor geographical. You will have the same kind of Jews in the new temple as in the old, and the services will be virtually similar. In effect, you are setting up a competing temple, and you would like me to be its rabbi. No. thank you. Nor would I remain in my present job under those conditions. A temple is not a business enterprise in which competition is good for trade. But you will come to think of your temple in that way, and you will force the same kind of thinking on Gorfinkle and his group. Come join our temple—we have air conditioning, softer seats. Our cantor has a better voice, and our rabbi delivers shorter and snappier sermons. Hold your Bar Mitzvah or your wedding in our vestry. We give trading stamps.”
“Now look here. Rabbi—”
“Mr. Paff doesn’t need me. A temple doesn’t need a rabbi, and a rabbi doesn’t need a temple. The rabbi’s functions in the temple—leading prayers and delivering sermons—are the most minor part of his duties. The first any thirteen-year-old boy can perform, and the second, isn’t it for most a kind of relief to break the monotony and tedium of the service? No. Mr. Becker. I have no intention of being the extra added attraction of a new temple.”
“But if Gorfinkle succeeds in voting you out—” The rabbi looked at Wasserman in mute question.
The old man spread his hands. “In this world. Rabbi, you’ve got to make first a living. Here Paff offers you a job, at more money yet. All right, maybe the conditions aren’t perfect. Where are they perfect? But it’s a living; it’s parnossah.”
The rabbi bit his lip in vexation. He had assumed that Wasserman at least would understand. “And is Barnard’s Crossing the only place where I can make a living? No, Mr. Wasserman, if this split goes through, I will not accept a contract from either Mr. Paff s or Mr. Gorfinkle’s group. I will leave Barnard’s Crossing.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
As Stuart Gorfinkle drove back to the cookout from Lynn, he felt a totally unreasonable resentment against his parents, especially his father. Why were there always strings attached when his father let him have the car? They were only going to his Aunt Edith’s to eat; his uncle could have picked them up. He wondered uneasily if the kids had been able to find shelter somewhere when the rain really pelted down. And the lightning, had it been as bad at the beach as on the drive to Lynn?