Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry

In the center of the room was a large, old-fashioned brass bed, in which, propped up by pillows, the old man lay. A large roll-topped oak desk, scratched and scarred and piled high with papers, stood against the wall, and in front was a mahogany swivel chair of the same vintage; on top of its cracked leatherette cushion was another of well- worn tapestry, long removed from some ancient sofa. There were a couple of straight-backed chairs covered in green plush that the rabbi assumed probably had been part of the Goralsky diningroom furniture.

“The rabbi has come to see you, Papa,” said Goralsky.

“I thank him,” said the old man. He was small with a pale, waxen face, and a straggly beard. His dark eyes, sunk deep in bony sockets, were bright with fever. One thin hand picked nervously at the coverlet.

“How do you feel, Mr. Goralsky?” asked the rabbi.

“ Nasser should feel like this.” He smiled in self-deprecation.

The rabbi smiled back at him. “So why don’t you take your medicine?”

The old man shook his head slowly. “On Yom Kippur, Rabbi, I fast.”

“But the regulation to fast doesn’t apply to medicine. It’s an exception, a special rule.”

“About special rules, exceptions, Rabbi, I don’t know. What I do, I learned from my father, may he rest in peace. He was not a learned man, but there wasn’t another one in the village in the old country who could touch him for praying. He believed in God like in a father. He didn’t ask questions and he didn’t make exceptions. Once, when I was maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, he was in the house saying his morning prayers when some peasants pushed open the door. They had been drinking and they were looking for trouble. They shouted to my father he should give them some bromphen, brandy. My mother and I, we were frightened, and she hugged me, but my father didn’t look at them and he didn’t even skip a word in his prayer. One of them came up to him, and my mother screamed, but my father went on praying. Then the others, they must have got nervous, because they pulled their friend back, and then they left the house.”

His son obviously had heard the story many times for he made a grimace of impatience, but his father did not notice and went on. “My father worked hard, and he always managed to feed us and clothe us. And with me, it’s the same way. I always obeyed the rules, and God always took care of me. Sometimes I worked harder and sometimes there was trouble, but looking back it was more good than bad. So what I’m told to do, I do, and this must be what God wants because He gave me a good wife who lived till she was full of years, and good sons, and in my old age He even made me rich.”

“Do you think that the regulations-to pray, to keep the Sabbath, to fast on Yom Kippur-do you think these are good-luck charms?” the rabbi said. “God also gave you a mind to reason with and to use to protect the life He entrusted to your care.”

The old man shrugged his shoulders.

“In fact, if you are sick, the regulation specifically states that you must not fast. And it’s not an exception either. It’s a general principle that is basic to our religion.”

“So who says I’m sick? A doctor says I’m sick, that makes me sick?”

“All day he goes on like that,” said Ben admiringly. “A mind like a steel trap.” To his father he said, “Look, Papa, I asked Dr. Bloom who we should get and he tells me Dr. Hamilton Jones is the best there is. So we get Hamilton Jones. He’s not just any doctor; he’s a professor, from Harvard College.”

“Mr. Goralsky,” said the rabbi earnestly, “man was created in God’s image. So to disregard the health of the body that was entrusted to our care, God’s image, Mr. Goralsky, this is a serious sin. It is chillul ha-Shem, an affront to the Almighty.”

“Look, Rabbi, I’m an old man. For seventy-five years at least-seventy-five years I can give you a guarantee-I fasted on Yom Kippur. So this Yom Kippur you think I’m going to eat?”

“But medicine is not eating, Mr. Goralsky.”

“When I take in my mouth and I swallow, by me this is eating.”

“You can’t beat him,” Ben Goralsky murmured in the rabbi’s ear.

“Do you realize, Mr. Goralsky,” said the rabbi seriously, “that if, God forbid, you should die because you refused medication, it could be considered suicide.”

The old man grinned.

The rabbi realized that the old man was enjoying this, that he was deriving a perverse sort of pleasure from debating with a young rabbi. David Small wanted to smile, but he made one last effort and managed to sound somber and portentous. “Think, Mr. Goralsky. If I should judge you a suicide, you would not receive formal burial. There would be no eulogy over your grave. There would be no public mourning. No Kaddish would be recited in your memory. According to strict interpretation of the Law, you might be buried in a corner off to one side of the cemetery-you couldn’t even be placed beside your dear wife-and your children and grandchildren would be shamed-”

The old man held up a thin, blue-veined hand. “Look, Rabbi, in all my life I never did anybody any harm. I never cheated; I never bore false witness. Fifty years I’m in business for myself and show me one person who can say I took from him a penny. So I’m sure God will take care of me and not let me die tonight.”

The rabbi couldn’t resist the gambit. “If you are on such good terms with the Almighty, Mr. Goralsky, then why did He let you get sick in the first place?”

The old man smiled as though his opponent had fallen into the trap he had set. “Such a question! If He didn’t let me get sick, so how could He make me well?”

“He can stop you like that every time,” said the son.

“Don’t worry, Rabbi,” said the old man. “I’m not going to die tonight. Benjamin, send in the woman. You better go now; you’ll be late for Kol Nidre.” He closed his eyes in dismissal.

As the two men walked down the stairs, the rabbi said, “I’m afraid I wasn’t of much help.” He looked at his host curiously. “But I would have thought he would listen to you-”

“When does a parent ever listen to a child, Rabbi?” asked Goralsky bitterly. “To him, I’m just a boy. He’s proud when other people say nice things about me. Last year, I was written up in Time magazine and he carried the clipping in his wallet and pulled it out and showed it to people whenever my name was mentioned. And if it wasn’t mentioned, he’d bring it up himself: ‘Did you read about my son, Benjamin?’ But when it comes to taking my advice, that’s another story. In matters of business, at least, he listens; but when it’s his own personal health-talk to the wall.”

“Has he been well all along?”

“He’s never sick. He doesn’t see a doctor from one year to the next. That’s the trouble: he thinks he is indestructible and when something like this happens, he won’t do anything about it.”

“He must be pretty old.”

“Eighty-four,” said Goralsky proudly.

“Then maybe he’s right,” suggested the rabbi. “After all, you can’t argue with success. If, at his age, he is well and never sees a doctor, then he’s probably learned instinctively how to take care of himself.”

“Maybe, Rabbi, maybe. Well, thanks anyway for trying. I’ll drive you and Mrs. Small to the temple now.”

“Aren’t you coming to services?”

“No, I think tonight to be on the safe side I better hang around here.”

CHAPTER FIVE

A light panel truck bearing the sign Jackson ’s Liquor Mart drove up to the Levensons across the street from the Hirsh house. The driver got out and stood at the front door with a small parcel under his arm. He pushed the doorbell and waited. He rang again, his fingers drumming a nervous tattoo on the aluminum cover of his voucher book. Just then he saw Isaac Hirsh leave his house and start for his car. He hailed him and walked over.

“You live in that house, Mister?”

“That’s right.”

“You know”-he peered at the name on the package-“Charles Levenson?”

“Sure. That’s his house right there.”

“Yeah, I know.” Suddenly the driver was exasperated. “Look, this is my last delivery today and I’m running late. And tomorrow all my deliveries are on the other side of town. There’s no one home, and I hate to leave this