Masquerade

his life.

He married. They had no children. Tests indicated he was sterile, made so by illnesses he had contracted at Dachau. His wife was understanding and supportive.

She was patient, as well, with the dark moods that engulfed him with some regularity. His problems stayed hidden within the privacy of their home. His congregation knew him only as one who had survived the Holocaust and was a wise and good rabbi.

And now, in addition, the congregation gloried in Rabbi Winer’s literary accomplishments. They boasted of their rabbi, the author. “Yes, that’s right; our rabbi is the one who writes the books. Yes, he’s just a regular guy. His door is always open to us. We wouldn’t trade him for anyone.”

Although it was generally known that he had been subjected to the horrors of Dachau, that fact alone was all anyone knew of his past. He made it clear to everyone that the subject of Dachau was, as they would say in the land of his birth, verboten. With his wife alone did he share- and that with much reluctance-the details of his captivity. Even then he could not bring himself to tell her how, near the end of his time in the camp, he had become a traitor. It was his ultimate secret.

No matter how he tried, he could not forgive himself for betraying his fellow prisoners. If his sin were ever to be revealed, it would, he felt, mean the end of everything. The end of his rabbinate; the end of his marriage; the end of his last shred of self-respect; the end, of course, of his writing career; the end of his life.

But one person knew. Irving Winer had no clue as to how this person had discovered the secret. Those limited few in the camp who had known, only two of the guards and one prisoner, were long dead. Yet, still, one person knew.

Klaus Krieg knew. And he had hinted that the secret might not be safe. In the oblique warning that was issued, it was evident that Krieg knew he was toying with dynamite and that the thread alone was enough to turn Winer toward desperate means.

The implied and manifest threats on either side had produced a tenuous Mexican standoff. But it was, at best, a delicate balance.

And now, this very evening, Winer was about to meet his enemy face to face. He was unsure how to handle this meeting. It was for this reason that he had argued with his wife and finally convinced her not to accompany him. Somehow, Rabbi Winer would have to resolve this matter alone. One on one.

The prospect put him on edge. Too much so, it seemed. He was aware that his pulse rate had quickened and that, even though this was a cool evening, he was now perspiring freely. As he had on similar occasions, he turned to prayer.

He removed from his suitcase his siddur, the Jewish prayerbook. The rabbi prayed that God would have a special word for him. One that would show him the proper course of action.

After a brief prayer for guidance from the daily liturgy, Winer opened the prayerbook at random. His hope was that God would direct his hands to find the special message.

It gave him added consolation to read in the book’s original Hebrew. This was Tehillim, the Book of Psalms. A good omen. The powerful prayer of Psalms was Winer’s favorite in the Bible. The index finger of his right hand was touching the numerical identification of Psalm 109, one of the “cursing Psalms.” Just what the doctor ordered. His attention wandered up and down and through the Psalms, snatching at phrases that seemed particularly appropriate.

They have opened wicked and treacherous mouths against me. They have spoken to me. . with words of hatred. . and attacked me without cause.

When [my accuser] is judged, let him go forth condemned, and may his plea be in vain. May his days be few. May his children be fatherless and his wife a widow. May his children be roaming vagrants and beggars; may they be cast out of the ruins of their homes. May the usurer ensnare all his belongings and strangers plunder the fruit of his labors. May there be no one to do him a kindness, nor anyone to pity his orphans. May his posterity meet with destruction. Because he remembered not to show kindness, but persecuted the wretched and poor and the brokenhearted to do them to death. He loved cursing; may it come upon him; he took no delight in blessing; may it be far from him. And may he be clothed with cursing as with a robe; may it penetrate into his entrails like water and like oil into his bones; may it be for him like a garment which covers him like a girdle which is always about him.

But do you, O God, my Lord, deal kindly with me for Your names sake; in your generous kindness rescue me; For I am wretched and poor, and my heart is pierced within me. Help me, O Lord, my God; Save me, in Your kindness.

Winer sat back. He closed his eyes. In the silence that engulfed him he contemplated the words he’d just read. The words of the Psalm seemed to describe his “enemy” quite well. Klaus Krieg, completely devoid of pity or kindness. On the contrary, quite capable of cursing, indeed, causing the destruction of, the defenseless.

Of course, in this day and age, one does not expect God personally to right the wrongs of this evil person. The time has passed when a recalcitrant Pharaoh is sent reeling by ten plagues imposed directly by God. In those days, Moses could threaten the Egyptians confident that the Ribono Shel Olom, the Master of the Universe, would act in miraculous and destructive punishments.

God was not going to do Winer’s work for him. That was not the message of the Psalm to which God had led the rabbi. The message, clearly, was that Krieg must be stopped, must be punished. “May his days be few.” Capital punishment. What on earth could be a more appropriate sentence?

As Winer continued to muse over the Psalm, he grew more calm, more self-assured. He was aware that his pulse rate had slowed and regulated. Far from continuing to perspire, he now felt cool. As usual, he had found his strength in prayer.

He continued to pray. He continued to think.

“May his days be few.”

On the other hand, maybe there was, indeed a fate worse than death. What was it? In Shakespeare? “The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones.”

Wasn’t that the thrust of the Psalm? To reward evil with evil?

Then, let it be done.

4

“You’re not going to wear that, are you?”

The Reverend and Mrs. David Benbow were dressing for dinner. She, in slip, seated at the vanity, was applying light makeup.

“What’s the matter with it?” Benbow studied himself in the mirror.

Tall, with a suggestion of a natural wave in his blond hair, David Benbow had nearly maintained his athletic figure of earlier days. The beginning of a paunch was about all that hinted at his mid-forties age. There was not a mature line in his face.

“The tie,” Martha said.

“What’s the matter with the tie? It goes with this suit, doesn’t it?”

“Well, now that you mention it, not really. But that’s not the point.”

“Well, then. .”

“The point,” Martha stopped brushing her eyelashes, “is that the participants in this workshop are clergymen or religious. I should think you’d be expected to wear your clerical collar.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely.”

“It’s a bit uncomfortable for that, you know. Unless you think it’s really necessary.”

“I think so. You wouldn’t want to pop into dinner to find you’re the only one not in uniform.”

“Oh. . I suppose.” Benbow removed the tie and shirt, rummaged through a drawer and came up with a black, collarless shirt. He slipped into the shirt and affixed the plain white clerical collar that was peculiar to, but not exclusive to, the Episcopal and Anglican priesthood. When, eventually, he would don a jacket, he would be wearing a black worsted suit with a red pinstripe and a clerical collar. Proper.