Someday the Rabbi Will Leave (2 page)

“Still sleeping,” said his wife. “She got in late last night.”

The maid, a local girl and not very well trained, brought out his bacon and eggs, drew his copy of
The New York Times
from under her arm, and then filled his coffee cup from the heavy silver pot already on the table. He took an experimental sip.

The girl hovered. “Miz Hagerstrom wants I should ask you if you want a pot of fresh coffee.”

“No, this is all right.”

“You don't want she should hot it up?”

“No, this is just fine.”

He was a good-looking man of fifty with graying hair and friendly blue eyes. To the amusement of his wife, the girl gave him a yearning, adoring look before reluctantly returning to the kitchen.

“That girl, she hovers,” he said.

“She's got a crush on you.”

“Ridiculous,” he said, trying to sound annoyed, although secretly pleased. “What time did Laura get in last night?”

“Two, three, who knows? I heard her come in but I didn't look at the clock. Why?”

“Why? Because she's our daughter. She's a girl—”

“She's twenty-five, Howard.”

“So?”

“And she spent the last three years in England, and before that she was away at school.”

“I suppose,” he said sheepishly. “Still … Doesn't she ever tell you where she's going?”

“She might if she happened to think of it, or if I asked her. Last night she went to Cambridge. Some political thing.”

“Oh, politics.”

“Why not?” Sophia Magnuson was a tall woman with a long, narrow face that was handsome rather than pretty. Even now, in her dressing gown, she looked stately enough to go to an embassy ball. “You ought to get involved, too, Howard. Oh, I don't mean to run for office, but to advise, to influence. It's expected of a man in your position.” She tapped the local newspaper she had been reading. “It says here that Ronnie Sykes has been asked to come down to Washington. He's going to serve on some sort of commission for the President. Why don't they ever ask you?”

He looked up. “I suppose because I'm not active in politics. Ronnie Sykes is a member of the state Republican Committee. Why are you interested? Do you want to go to Washington? What for?”

“Well, we'd meet some different people, important people, people who do things. You contribute to the party, don't you?”

“Nothing very substantial. Whenever they have a testimonial dinner I buy a bunch of tickets, but that's about it. Besides, Sykes is a Greek. His name used to be Skouros, or something like that.”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“It means he's a contact with a minority, and so can be useful to the administration.”

“Well, we're a minority, aren't we? Why couldn't you be a contact with the Jewish community?”

“It's not just being Greek. He's also involved with them. I think he was president of Ahepa once.”

“Well, you were an officer in a temple once.”

“Vice-president. And that was seven or eight years ago when we were still living in Boston. And I wasn't really involved. My grandfather practically founded the temple and was its first president. And afterwards my father was president for a couple of terms. So I was more or less expected to get involved. Frankly, one of the attractions of coming to Barnard's Crossing was that it gave me the excuse to drop it.”

“Yet you joined the temple here the first year we came.”

“That's different. It's the one Jewish organization in town. If I had an obviously Jewish name like Cohen or Levy or Goldstein, I might not have bothered. But Magnuson could be anything—British, Swedish. I didn't want anyone to think I was ashamed of my heritage, so I joined the temple.”

“All right, but then last year you became a member of the Board of Directors. Wasn't that kind of overdoing it?” she challenged.

He chuckled. “I felt I had to. Let's see, you were in Paris when that right-of-way business came up. I don't think I ever told you what happened. My first thought was to consult my lawyers in Boston. Then I realized that approach might be all wrong. They'd make a Supreme Court case out of it. They'd come before the Board of Selectmen with affidavits, depositions, precedents. And I sensed it wouldn't work. The selectmen are local people, simple people. One is a barber, for instance. That approach might just get their backs up. So instead I went to the town hall to scout the situation on my own. There was a directory on the wall with the names of the town officers, and the name of the town counsel was Morris Halperin.”

She smiled knowingly. “I see.”

“He happened to be in his office at the time, so I explained the situation, and asked him to handle it for me as my lawyer.”

“And?”

“He turned me down.”

“He knew who you were?”

“Oh sure, but he explained that it was a conflict of interest, that he couldn't act as my attorney in a matter on which he might have to advise the selectmen. Then he told me I didn't need an attorney, that I should appear before the board and tell my story, and that it would make a better impression than if I were represented by counsel. Then he kind of winked at me and said, ‘Besides, if the question is put to me by the selectmen, my opinion might be helpful.'”

“That was very friendly of him, I must say.”

“Wasn't it? As it turned out, they didn't even ask his opinion. They decided unanimously in my favor. So after the decision was published in the town bulletin, which made it official, I went to see him again. I felt I owed him something for—for advising me not to engage a lawyer.”

“And this time, I'd bet he was more amenable.”

“You'd lose! He said he couldn't take payment for the advice since he had given it in his role of town counsel.”

“How old is this man, Halperin?”

He pursed his lips as he considered. “Fortyish.”

“It's refreshing to see that at least some of the younger people have a sense of ethics.” She noted his quizzical look and added, “Or is there more?”

He laughed. “Well, not really. We talked, and the conversation turned to the temple. Then out of the blue he asked me if I'd mind if he proposed my name for the Board of Directors.”

“Just like that?”

“M-hm. You see, he knew I owed him one.”

“But you have no interest in religion, and—”

“I explained that and he wasn't fazed in the least. He said that very few members of the board were religious except for their sense of heritage, which they felt was bound up with the institution of the synagogue. He realized I might be busy and unable to attend the meetings regularly, and I gathered it wouldn't matter if I didn't attend any of them. They just wanted the prestige of my name on their stationery. So I agreed. What else could I do?”

“But you
have
attended meetings, some of them anyway.”

He smiled ruefully. “A couple. I really ought to go more often. They don't seem to know how to transact business. I might be able to set them right.”

“I'm sure you could. So how would you go about becoming president?”

“Of the temple? Why in the world would I want to?”

“Never mind.
Could
you if you wanted to?”

Put this way, as a problem in corporate and institutional politics, he canted his head to one side as he considered. “Well …”

“Would you talk to the rabbi about it?”

“Oh no.” He shook his head impatiently. “He's just an employee of the temple. I suppose I might—hm—you know what I'd do? I'd talk to this Morris Halperin.”

“Because he first proposed you to the board?”

“No. Because he has political know-how. Getting elected town counsel, even though he's Jewish, shows that. I'd get him to act as a sort of campaign manager.”

“What makes you think he'd want to?”

“Oh, I think he would. He's young and on the make. I'm sure he'd appreciate the chance of associating himself with me.”

“How do you know he's on the make?”

“Would he bother with the job of town counsel if he weren't? It pays next to nothing, and it means he has to attend the selectmen's meetings every Wednesday evening throughout the year.” His face relaxed in a broad grin. “Besides, I looked up his account at the bank before I went to see him that second time.”

“How could you do that?”

“It's a local branch of my bank in the city. And I'm a director. Do you think the manager would jib at showing me anything I wanted to see?”

“And?”

He shrugged. “He's making a living, but he's not setting the world on fire.”

“What's he like? What's he look like?”

“Oh, he seems a decent sort of chap. He's a big man, six feet, I'd say, and kind of stocky, but he's not fat—not yet, anyway. He's got a big nose and fleshy lips. His hairline has crept back to the top of his head, but he has a nice face and he smiles easily.”

“Well, that's fine,” she said. “I'll invite him to dinner.”

“What for?”

“Oh, because he was decent and helpful,” she said airily. “And because it might be interesting to explore the possibilities. Besides, since selling off Elechtech Corporation you need a new interest. Do you mind?”

“What good would it do if I did, now you've set your mind to it?”

3

Sam Feinberg, the president of the temple, short, stout, and balding, was a decent, considerate man with a talent for compromise. Which is why he was elected president in the first place, following the near-disastrous administration of Chester Kaplan and the Orthodox group. He had served three terms—in 1980 and again in 1981, and once again in 1982, the last time virtually unopposed. From the point of view of the Reform element, he was a modern man who did not flaunt his observance of the religious code; the ultrareligious clique found him acceptable because they knew he maintained a kosher home, and he came regularly to the Friday night and Sabbath services, even appearing at the daily minyan on occasion.

When he arrived, the rabbi inquired first after his wife, who was not well. Feinberg shook his head sadly. “It's what I came to see you about. I've decided we have to go away before the winter sets in. We're going to Arizona.”

“I see. How long will you be gone?”

“I'm not coming back. We'll be moving out there permanently. To be perfectly candid with you, Rabbi, I've been planning this move for some time. I flew out to Phoenix last week. My son, Mark, as you know, is in the real estate business there. He moved out to Phoenix some years ago. He suffers from asthma, too, and he hasn't had a serious attack since he's been there. He's been after us to make the move because of his mother's condition. And to make a long story short, I bought a house there.”

“Well, that was quick. I wish you the best of luck, of course. And what about your business here?”

“The younger boy, Abner, and my son-in-law have been running it for some time. I haven't had much to do with it for the last couple of years. Oh, I go in a few times a week, but that's about all. They can carry on without me.”

“When are you planning to leave? Is this good-bye?”

Feinberg laughed. “Oh no, I won't be going for a month or more. There's still a lot to do. But the major thing that bothers me is the temple.” He emitted a rich gurgle of laughter. “I can't very well run it by correspondence from Arizona.”

“So our vice-president will—oh no, he's out. We have no vice-president. That means we'll have to hold a special election.”

“The other day, Rabbi, I was looking over the by-laws. Back when the temple first started, they had about forty-five on the Board of Directors and three vice-presidents, a first, a second, and a third. I don't know what they were expecting.”

The rabbi explained. “As I understand—I wasn't here at the very beginning, you know—it wasn't intended to ensure the succession, but as a kind of honor. And that's also why there were forty-five on the board. Only about fifteen ever came to a meeting, but the idea was to get as many members as possible actively involved. Then some years back—after they had cut the board down to fifteen—there was a change in the by-laws, setting up just one vice-president but permitting the president to appoint a vice-president if the office fell vacant for any reason—rather than holding a special election. I guess they felt that if they held a special meeting of the membership just to elect a vice-president, not many would show up.”

“That's right. It was about the time when Agnew resigned and Nixon appointed Ford. The board figured that if the United States could do it, then our temple certainly could. ‘If for any reason the office of vice-president shall fall vacant, then the president may appoint a member to the position with the approval of not less than two thirds of the directors at any regular meeting of the board.' Something like that, anyway. So I thought I'd appoint somebody, get the approval of the board, and then I'd resign. I was thinking of someone like—No?” as the rabbi shook his head.

“You'd appoint your friend Siskin, I suppose.”

“Or Ely Mann, or Murray Larkin.”

“Well, whomever you appointed, the board would probably approve because the position isn't considered important. But then when you announced you were resigning, the next sound you'd hear, and you'd hear it all the way to Lynn, would be Chester Kaplan crying foul. It would be seen as a trick, and his group wouldn't take it lying down. They'd hold meetings, launch a telephone campaign—it could split the congregation, and there'd be bad blood for years to come.”

“But if I just resign, a special election would be held in a week or two, and Chester Kaplan would win easily,” said Feinberg stubbornly.

“Why would he win?”

“Because he's got a close-knit group. They meet with each other all the time; Kaplan holds a weekly at-home. His campaign would be off and running before the Conservatives could even agree on a candidate.”