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In the parking lot the rabbi was delayed once again. Mr. Wasserman, the first president of the congregation, hailed him as he was getting into his car. Wasserman, now in his seventies, was thin and frail after his recent illness, and the hand he put on the rabbi’s arm showed blue veins through transparent skin. He spoke softly, his speech not so much accented as showing special care to be correct.

“You’ll be back for the board meeting Sunday, won’t you, Rabbi?”

“Oh, certainly. We’re planning to start back Saturday right after Havdalah, say six o’clock, and we should be home by nine—ten at the latest.”

“That’s good.”

The rabbi paused in the act of getting in behind the wheel. “Are you expecting something important to come up at the meeting?”

“Expecting? I’m always expecting, almost any day, but especially on Sundays when the board meets. This Sunday it could be something serious.”

“Why this Sunday?”

Wasserman held up a finger, “Because next Sunday is the first seder, so there won’t be a meeting.” He held up a second finger. “The next Sunday is again the holiday, so again won’t be a meeting. So if Gorfinkle is planning something serious, this Sunday would be a good day, because there wouldn’t be another meeting for three weeks.” He held up three fingers.

“And if he decides to do something serious, as you put it, how could I stop it?”

“You’re the rabbi. That means you’re not on one side or the other. You’re like neutral, so you can say things that the rest of us can’t.”

“You’re thinking of the committee changes that the president will make?” He settled into the car. “He’ll make them sooner or later, anyway.”

Wasserman shook his head. “But it will cause trouble, and better later than sooner. You’re a rabbi, but I’m an old man. A lot that I’ve seen, maybe you only know from reading about it. It’s like in marriage. If an open break doesn’t develop, it can be cured. After all, there are couples who quarrel almost from the day they get married. If one of them doesn’t pack up and move out and go see a lawyer yet, there’s a good chance the marriage will last.”

“Isn’t that being a little—” He looked at the old man; he was obviously troubled, so he changed his tack. “After all, Mr. Wasserman, it’s only a board meeting.”

Mr. Wasserman looked at him steadily. “Try to be there. Rabbi.”

As he drove home to pick up Miriam and Jonathan, he found himself resenting the role he was expected to play. He was a rabbi—by tradition a scholar and a teacher; why should he be mixed up with matters of faction and politics? Even Jacob Wasserman, whom he respected and regarded as one of his few real friends in the Jewish community—the one man who should have an understanding of the traditional role of the rabbi—even he was involving him in the tawdry politics of the temple. It was almost as though they resented his taking a couple of days off.

It had all started a month ago when Rabbi Robert Dorfrnan. Hillel director and religious advisor to the Jewish students of Mass State, Western Division, at Binkerton, and his wife. Nancy, had driven east to visit her folks in Lynn. They had dropped in on the Smalls in Barnard’s Crossing, because it was close by and the two men had been at the seminary together. In the course of conversation Bob Dorfman mentioned that he had applied for a pulpit in New Jersey.

“They’ve invited me to come down and conduct Friday and Saturday services.”

“Sounds encouraging.”

“It is, but I wish they had chosen some other date. That’s the weekend before our spring vacation.”

“And the Hillel people won’t let you off for that weekend?” Rabbi Small sounded surprised.

“Oh, there’s no trouble that way. It’s just that with the Passover coming during the vacation. I feel that I ought to conduct that going-away service.”

“Why not ask the New Jersey people for a postponement or an alternate date?”

Rabbi Dorfman shook his head. “You know how it is. They may be having a bunch of candidates for a whole series of Sabbaths.”

“You’re pretty keen on this?”

“Oh, yes.” said Dorfman. “Hillel work is all right, and working with college kids is important, but I’d like to get a regular congregation.” He laughed self-consciously. “I’d like to make a speech of benediction at a Bar Mitzvah once in a while. I suppose it’s the messianic delusion that we all suffer from a little or we wouldn’t get into this business in the first place, but I have the feeling that what I can say at that time might strike the youngster just right. I’d like to be present at a brith—”

“And give a eulogy at a grave?”

“Yes, even that, if it could give comfort to the family.”

Bob Dorfman was stout and round-faced, and as he looked eagerly at his friend he seemed much younger, like a rosy-cheeked schoolboy hoping for his teacher’s approval.

“Believe me,” said Rabbi Small, “like most things, it doesn’t come up to expectation. In a Hillel job, on the other hand, you have lots of time to yourself; you’re in an academic atmosphere; you can study.”

“But you’re not involved in the real world.”

“Maybe you’re lucky. At least with a Hillel job you get security. In a congregation—in this real world of yours—you never can tell when you’re going to step on the toes of somebody important and find you don’t have a job.”

The other grinned. “I know. I’ve heard that you’ve had your troubles, but that’s all past, and you’re all set now. You’re on a long-term contract—”

Rabbi Small shook his head slowly. “Our contracts are service contracts, which means that legally—that is, as something you can sue for in a court of law—they’re about useless. Even if you could, if you did sue, you’d merely insure your never getting another pulpit. As you know, I was given a five-year contract, and when it expires at the end of this year. I suppose I will be offered another, probably at an increase in salary.

“So,” said Dorfman, “you’re all set.”

“There are other drawbacks, though. For one thing, it’s a full-time job. You’re involved with the congregation twenty-four hours a day. Your time is not your own.” He smiled. “You might find it a little wearing, even if it did give you a chance to officiate at a brith or a Bar Mitzvah.”

“Oh, it’s not only that,” said Dorfman. “It’s not only that I want to get into congregational work; I also want to get out of Hillel work. There’s the matter of money; with a growing family, I’ve got to think of the future. But also I don’t feel effective with these college kids. They’re the wrong age for me. I don’t feel that I’m getting across to them. They know everything, and they’re cynical about it.”

“Sometimes they’re affected more than they show,” said David Small. “I don’t get to see too many of them, of course, only those who come under my hands here in Barnard’s Crossing—kids I’ve had in post-confirmation classes. They usually drop in on me when they’re home on vacation. To me they seem keen and vital. When they’re cynical, it’s because they’re basically idealistic and they’ve been disappointed.”

“Yes, but if kids were all you saw—”

“I suppose. Look, would it help if I came down to sub for you that weekend?”

Dorfman’s face lit up. “Gosh. David, that would be wonderful.” Then immediately it clouded. “But could you arrange it at your end?”

“I don’t see why not. The Brotherhood conducts one service each year. This year I think it’s the week before the one you’re interested in. I’ll check my calendar. But it shouldn’t be too hard to change it to the following week, and I could then come down to Binkerton.”