Harry Kemelman
Friday The Rabbi Slept Late
The first book in the Rabbi Small series, 1964
The Creation of Rabbi Small
A Special Foreword by Harry Kemelman
I was born and grew up in a Jewish neighborhood in Boston. We moved several times, but always to a Jewish neighborhood, that is, one which had enough Jews to support a Jewish butcher shop and a Jewish grocery where you could buy herring and hard-crusted rye bread rather than the wax-wrapped loaf advertised as 'untouched by human hand' (understandably) that was sold in the chain stores. These had to be within walking distance of one's home. Few people had cars in those days, and even those were stored in a garage for the winter since streets were not plowed, only sanded. Any area that could support these two was also able to support a shul or a synagogue.
I stayed out of school for every Jewish holiday, accompanying my father to the synagogue, mumbung the required passages as fast as I could but never as fast as my father. He would recite the Amidah and sit down before I was halfway through, even though I skipped a lot. During the High Holidays, when the synagogue was jammed, I would say I was going up to the balcony to see my mother, and then skip out and play with the other youngsters, and later when I was a teenager, stand around and flirt with the girls.
Although everyone in the congregation recited the passages in Hebrew, only a few knew the meaning of the words they were saying.
We did not pray, at least not in the sense of asking or beseeching. We davened, which consisted of reciting blessings expressing our gratitude, reading passages from the Bible and the Psalms. What petitionary prayers there were, were for the land of Israel and for the Jewish nation as a whole. It is perhaps simplistic, but this day our daily bread' is 'Blessed art thou, O Lord, for bringing forth bread from the earth.'
Fifty years ago, I moved to the Yankee town that I have called Barnard's Crossing in my books, where the few Jews in the area had decided to establish a synagogue. Of necessity, since there were so few of us, it was set up as a Conservative synagogue so that the few older members who were likely to be Orthodox on the one hand and the Reform on the other, would not feel the service too strange. In point of fact, most of them knew little or nothing of their religion. They were second and third generation Americans; their parents had received little from their immigrant parents and passed on even less to their children. Only one or two of the older Orthodox members kept kosher homes.
They knew about reh'gion in general from their reading or from the movies they had seen, but little or nothing of the tenets of Judaism. Typical was the reaction of the young lawyer who had asked the rabbi they had engaged to bless the Cadillac he had just bought. He was surprised and hurt when the rabbi refused and said he did not bless things. The friends in the synagogue whom he told of the rabbi's refusal felt much the same way.
I was fascinated by the disaccord between the thinking of the rabbi and that of the congregation, and the problems it gave rise to. So I wrote a book about it. My editor, Arthur Fields, thought the book too low-keyed and suggested jokingly that I could brighten it up by introducing some of the exciting elements in the detective stories that I had written. As I passed by the large parking lot of our synagogue it occurred to me that it was an excellent place to hide a body. And as a rabbi is one who is learned in the law and whose basic function is to sit as a judge in cases brought before him, it seemed to me that he was the ideal character to act as an amateur detective by searching out the truth. Thus was born Rabbi David Small.
1
They sat in the chapel and waited. they were still only nine, and they were waiting for the tenth so that they could begin morning prayers. The elderly president of the congregation, Jacob Wasserman, was wearing his phylacteries, and the young rabbi, David Small, who had just arrived, was putting his on. He had withdrawn his left arm from his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve to the armpit. Placing the little black box with its quotation from the Scriptures on the upper arm-next to the heart-he bound the attached strap seven times around his forearm, and then thrice around his palm to form the first letter of the Divine Name, and finally around his middle finger as a ring of spiritual betrothal to God. This, together with the headpiece which he now placed on his forehead, was in literal response to the biblical injunction: 'Thou shalt bind them (the words of God) for a sign upon thine hand, and they shall be for a frontlet between thine eyes.'
The others, who were dressed in silken-fringed prayer shawls and black skullcaps, sat around in small groups talking, glancing idly through their prayer books, occasionally checking their watches against the round clock on the wall.
The rabbi, now prepared for morning service, strolled up and down the center aisle, not impatiently, but like a man who has arrived early at the railroad station. Snatches of conversation reached him: talk about business, about family and children, about vacation plans, about the chances of the Red Sox. It was hardly the proper conversation for men waiting to pray, he thought, and then immediately rebuked himself. Was it not also a sin to be top devout? Was not man expected to enjoy the good things of this life? the pleasures of family? of work-and of resting from work? He was still very young, not quite thirty, and introspective, so that he could not help raising questions, and then questioning the questions.
Mr. Wasserman had left the room and now returned. 'I just called Abe Reich. He said he'd be down in about ten minutes.'
Ben Schwarz, a short, plumpish, middle-aged man, got up abruptly. 'That does it for me,' he muttered. 'If I have to be beholden to that sonofabitch Reich to make up a minyan, I'll dp my praying at home.'
Wasserman hurried over and halted him at the end of the aisle. 'Surely you're not going now, Ben? That will leave us only nine, even when Reich gets here.'
'Sorry, Jacob,' said Schwarz stiffly, 'I've got an important appointment and I've got to leave.'
Wasserman spread his hands. 'You have come to say Kaddish for your father, so what kind of appointment can you have that can't wait a few minutes longer so you can pay respects to him?' In his mid-sixties, Wasserman was older than most of the members of the congregation, and he spoke with a faint accent which manifested itself not so much in mispronounced words as in the special care he took to pronounce them correctly. He saw that Schwarz was wavering. 'Besides, I have Kaddish myself today, Ben.'
'All right, Jacob, stop churning my emotions. I'll stay.' He even grinned.
But Wasserman wasn't finished. 'And why should you be sore at Abe Reich? I heard what you said. You two used to be such good friends.'
Schwarz needed no prompting. 'I'll tell you why. Last week-'
Wasserman held up his hand. 'The business with the automobile? I heard it already. If you feel he owes you some money, sue him and get it over with.'
'A case like this you don't take to court.'
