The knock on the door, when it came, turned out to be not the reporters but the police. A tall, watery-eyed man introduced himself as Lieutenant Jennings. "Stanley told me you were here," he said. The rabbi motioned him to a seat. "We'd like to take your car down to the police garage, rabbi. We want to give it a good going-over and we can do it better down there." "Certainly, lieutenant." "You got a lawyer representing you, rabbi?" The rabbi shook his head. "Should I have?" "Well, maybe I shouldn't be the one to tell you, but we like to do things friendly-like. Maybe if you had a lawyer, he might tell you that you don't have to agree if you don't want to. Of course, if you didn't, we'd get a court order easy enough-"
"It's quite all right, lieutenant. If you think that taking my car downtown will help you in this shocking business, go right ahead." "If you got your keys handy…" "Of course." The rabbi detached them from the ring that was still lying on the desk. "This one is for the ignition and glove compartment, and this one is for the trunk."
"I'll give you a receipt for the car."
"It's not necessary."
He watched from the window as the lieutenant got into his car and drove off, and was pleased to see a good portion of the crowd leave with him.
Several times during the course of the day the rabbi tried to call his wife, but each time the line was reported busy. He called Mr. Wasserman's office, but was told that he was away and was not expected back.
He opened one of the books on his desk to leaf through it. Presently he made a note on a card. He checked a passage in another book and made another note. Soon he was completely absorbed in his research.
The phone rang. It was Miriam.
"I tried to get you three or four times, but the line was busy," he said.
"I took the receiver off the hook," she explained. "It started just after you left, people calling to ask if we had heard the news, and wanting to know if there was anything they could do. There was even one call to tell me that you had been arrested. That was when I took the receiver off, but then it makes funny little scratchy noises and you start wondering if it might be an important call. Didn't anyone call you?"
"Not a single call." He chuckled. "Guess no one wants to admit he's on speaking terms with Barnard's Crossing's Public Enemy Number One."
"Please don't! It's nothing to joke about." Then: "What are we going to do, David?"
"Do? Why, what is there to do?"
"I thought, what with all this-well, Mrs. Wasserman called up and invited us to stay with them-"
"But that's silly, Miriam. Tonight is the Sabbath and I intend to welcome it in my own house and at my own table. Don't worry, it will be all right. I'll be home in time for dinner, and then we'll go to the services as always."
"And what are you doing now?"
"Why I'm working on my Maimonides paper."
"Do you have to do that now?"
He wondered at the edge in her voice. "What else would I do?" he asked simply.
13
There were four or five times as many people at Evening services than as usual, much to the consternation of the members of Sisterhood, who had prepared cake and tea for the collation in the vestry afterward.
Considering the reason for the unexpectedly large attendance, the rabbi was none too pleased. He sat on the platform beside the Holy Ark, and grimly made up his mind that he would make no reference whatsoever to the tragedy. Pretending to be studying his prayer book, he glowered under his eyebrows at member after member who had never before attended a Friday evening service, smiling only when one of the few regulars entered, as if to show he knew they had come to worship rather than out of vulgar curiosity.
With Myra the president of Sisterhood, the Schwarzes were one of the regulars, but they usually sat fairly well back, in the sixth or seventh row. Tonight, however, although Ben slid into his regular seat, Myra continued on down front to the second row where the rabbi's wife was sitting. She sat down beside her, and leaning over, patted her hand and murmured in her ear. Miriam stiffened-then managed a smile.
The rabbi caught the little byplay and was touched by this consideration on the part of the Sisterhood president, all the more because it was unexpected. But as he thought about it, its full significance began to dawn on him. It was a gesture of reassurance, the sympathy one extends to the wife of someone who is under suspicion. It gave him another explanation for the large attendance. Although some may have come in hopes he might speak of the crime, others wanted to see if he would show signs of guilt. To remain silent and not mention the affair might give the wrong impression and imply he was afraid to speak.
He made no mention of the subject in the course of his sermon, but later, near the close of the service, he said: "Before the mourners in the congregation rise to recite the Kaddish, I should like to recall to you the true significance of the prayer."
The congregation sat up and edged forward in their seats. Now he was coming to it.
"There is a belief," the rabbi went on, "that reciting the Kaddish is a duty the mourner owes to the dear departed. If you will read the prayer, or its English translation on the opposite page, you will notice that it contains no mention of death or any suggestion of a plea for the soul of the dead. Rather, it is an affirmation of the belief in God and in His power and glory. What is the significance of the prayer then? Why is it especially reserved for those who mourn? And why, when most of our prayers are whispered, is this one prayer said aloud?
"Perhaps our very manner of delivery will give a clue to its meaning. It is a prayer not for the dead but for the living. It is an open declaration by one who has just suffered the loss of a dear one that he still has faith in God. Nevertheless, our people persist in thinking of the Kaddish as an obligation they owe to the dead, and because in our tradition custom takes on the force of law, I shall recite the Kaddish with the mourners, for one who was not a member of this congregation, nor even of our faith, someone about whom we know little, but whose life happened through tragic accident to touch this congregation.…"
The rabbi and his wife said little as they walked home from the temple. Finally he broke the silence. "I noticed Mrs. Schwarz went out of her way to extend her sympathy to you."
She s a good soul, David, and she meant well." Then, "Oh, David, this can be a nasty business."
"I'm beginning to think so," he said.
As they approached their house, they could hear the telephone ringing inside.
14
The religious revival did not extend to the saturday morning service; no more than the usual twenty or so turned up. When the rabbi got home, he found Chief Lanigan waiting for him.
"I don't like to intrude on your Sabbath," the chief apologized, "but neither do we like to interrupt our investigations. We police have no holidays."
"It's perfectly all right. In our religion, emergencies always supersede ritual."
"We're about through with your car. I'll have one of the boys drive it up here sometime tomorrow. Or if you're downtown, you can pick it up yourself."
"Fine."
"I'd like to check over with you what we found." From his briefcase he drew several pliofilm bags, each marked in black ink. "Let's see, this first one is stuff found under the front seat." He dumped the contents onto the desk. It consisted of some loose change, a receipt for repairs to the car dated several months back, a wrapper from a five-cent candy bar, a small calendar giving Hebrew and English equivalent dates, and a woman's plastic barrette.
The rabbi gave them a cursory glance. "Those are ours. At least, I recognize the barrette as my wife's. But you can ask her to be sure."