Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry

“Then we’d better get on with it.” From his wallet he extracted two one-dollar bills and gave her one and kept one for himself. Automatically he started to return the wallet to his back pocket, then thought better of it and went inside and put it away in his bureau drawer. He did not carry money on the Sabbath.

He came back with a prayer book in hand. Flipping the pages with index and second fingers, he found the place and handed her the open book. He pointed. “There’s the prayer.”

She read the Hebrew passage that explained that this money was for charity in partial atonement for her sins. Then she folded the bill and inserted it in the opening of the blue tin charity box that she kept on a shelf in the kitchen.

“Is a dollar enough, David?”

“It’s just a token.” He slipped in his own folded bill. “You know, my grandfather who lived with us a few years before he died, used for his offering a live rooster, which, I understood, was given to the poor. According to the custom, a man would use a rooster and a woman a hen. You now, in your condition, would be expected to use a hen and an egg.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, seriously.”

“And what would happen to the egg?”

“Oh, I suppose we’d eat it.”

“It sounds cannibalistic.”

“Now that you mention it. My folks used money, of course, usually in some multiple of eighteen. My father would accumulate coins for the purpose, dimes, as I recall, and he and my mother each would use eighteen. As a youngster I was given eighteen pennies.”

“Why eighteen?”

“Because in Hebrew the two letters in the alphabet that represent the numerals eight and ten spell chai, which means life-a bit of cabalistic nonsense, really. Come to think of it, today is the eighteenth of September, which gives it even added significance. I should have arranged to get some coins.”

“I’ve got a bunch of pennies, David-”

“I think the poor would appreciate a dollar more than eighteen cents. We’ll let it go this time and try to remember next year. But now if we don’t want to be late we’d better eat.”

They sat down and he pronounced the blessing. The telephone rang. The rabbi, who was nearer, picked up the instrument.

From the receiver came a loud voice. “Rabbi? Rabbi Small? This is Stanley. You know, Stanley Doble from the temple.”

Stanley was the temple janitor and general maintenance man, and although he saw the rabbi almost every day he still found it necessary to identify himself as Stanley Doble from the temple-like some heraldic title- whenever he phoned. Although he had an instinctive knowledge of all things electrical and mechanical, apparently he considered the phone wire a hollow tube through which he had to shout to be heard.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Rabbi, but the public-address system is on the blink.”

“What’s the matter with it?”

“It don’t work right. It don’t work right at all. It howls.”

“Maybe by tonight it will straighten itself out,” suggested the rabbi, who regarded all mechanical devices as a mystery; they got out of order owing to some perversity and might right themselves if let alone. Then hopefully, “Maybe a minor adjustment?”

“I checked the wiring. I couldn’t find anything. I think it’s the microphone. I think maybe it’s broken.”

“Is there anyone you can call for service? How about the company that installed it?”

“It’s a Boston outfit.”

The rabbi glanced at his watch. “Then there’s no sense in calling at this hour. What about someone in Lynn or Salem?”

“It’s pretty late, Rabbi. Most places are closed by now.”

“Well, I’ll just have to talk a little louder then. Perhaps you had better call the cantor and tell him.”

“Okay, Rabbi. Sorry to bother you, but I thought you’d like to know.”

The rabbi returned to his soup which his wife had set before him. He just started on it when the phone rang again. It was Mrs. Robinson, president of the Sisterhood. “Oh, Rabbi, Sue Robinson.” Her voice had a breathless quality as though she had sighted him at a distance and caught up with him only at the corner. “Forgive me for interrupting your pre-Holy Day meditations, but it’s frightfully important. You were going to make an announcement on the floral decorations, weren’t you?” She sounded accusing.

“Of course. Just a minute.” He opened his prayer book to a sheet of paper he had inserted. “I have it right here-Floral decorations, courtesy of the Sisterhood.”

“Well, there’s a change. Do you have a pencil and paper handy? I’ll hold on.”

“All right.”

“Rose Bloom-no, you had better make that Mr. and Mrs. Ira Bloom, in memory of her father David Isaac Lavin-”

“Lavin?”

“That’s right, she pronounces it Lavin, L-a-v-i-n, with a long A. She insists that’s nearer the original Hebrew than if she spelled it the usual way with an E. Is that right, Rabbi?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Well, of course if you say so, but it still sounds affected to me. Anyway, Floral decorations, courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Ira Bloom. You don’t want to make a mistake on the names, Rabbi,” she said sharply. “I would have called earlier, but she called me only half an hour ago.”

“I won’t forget.” He read the announcement back to her from his scribbled notes.

“Splendid. Oh, and Rabbi, you might tell Miriam. She’ll want to know.”

“Of course. I’ll tell her.”

He carefully copied over the hastily penciled note, printing the names neatly so he would make no mistake when making his announcements from the pulpit. Back at the table, he took a few spoonfuls of soup and shook his head. “I don’t think I care for any more,” he said apologetically.

“It’s probably cold by now.” She removed the plate.

The phone rang again. It was a Mrs. Rosoff. “Tell me, Rabbi,” she said, and tried to keep her voice calm, “I don’t like to disturb you at this time, but how much does the Torah weigh? You know, the Scroll?”

“Why, I don’t know, Mrs. Rosoff. The Scrolls are of different sizes, so I suppose they would vary quite a bit in weight. Is it important? I imagine most of ours would be about thirty pounds apiece, but that would be only a guess.”

“Well, I think it’s important, Rabbi. My husband got a notice last week that he was to have an honor for Yom Kippur. They said he would be hagboh. And I just found out what it means. It means, Rabbi, that he is supposed to lift the Scroll up by the handles way over his head. Is this the kind of honor you give to a man who had a heart attack not three years ago, and who to this day wouldn’t think of going out into the street without his little bottle of nitroglycerine pills? Is this how you give out honors, Rabbi? You’d like to see my husband have a heart attack right there on the altar?”

He tried to explain that the honors were distributed by the Ritual Committee and that he was sure they had no knowledge of Mr. Rosoff’s condition. “But it’s really nothing serious, Mrs. Rosoff, because hagboh is one of a pair. There’s hagboh and glilloh. Hagboh lifts the Scroll, and glilloh rolls it up and ties it. Your husband has only to say he would prefer the honor of rolling up the Scroll instead of lifting it, and the other man can do the lifting.”

“You don’t know my husband. You think he’ll admit he can’t lift the Scroll after you have announced he will? My big hero would rather take a chance on a heart attack.”

He assured her he would take care of it, and rather than rely on his memory immediately dialed Mortimer Schwarz, president of the congregation, who announced the honors from the pulpit.