Rabbi Gabrielle's Defiance (15 page)

"People are asking about the accident. I
can't just whitewash it," Gabby added.

"We don't envy your position," Stan replied.
"But it's imperative that no officer of the synagogue respond until
we know exactly what happened. A slip at this juncture could prove
very costly later."

Gabby shook her head in disgust. "Sounds like
a war to me. We're supposed to be working with the Morgensterns,
not against them."

Jankelrod commented, "That's the theory,
isn't it? But if the family sues, we're in an adversarial
relationship whether we like it or not. We've heard that they
refused your services a Janean's funeral.

"Asa and I went to the Washington Hospital
Center Burn Unit where the girls received emerge treatment. The
family was so angry they wouldn't let us into the intensive care
unit to see their daughters. While we were in the waiting room, the
Reverend Morris Kormen showed up. A retired Congregationalist
minister, he moonlights on the weekend as hospital chaplain.
Somebody from the family called for him. He recited prayers for the
girls. A very sweet man."

"Do you know who conducted the
funeral?"
"Reverend Claire Goldwater from the First Methodist
Church on River Road in Bethesda. Interment was at the Rock Creek
Cemetery. On behalf of the congregation, I sent a letter of
condolence and a contribution from the Rabbi's Discretions fund to
the burn center. Grieving for a lost child is the worst. I'd be
totally undone. I don't like thinking of David and Laura as
adversaries."

As the meeting drew to a close, Stan Melkin
jotted notes on his legal pad and thanked everybody for attending.
It was time to bring Harold Farb into the discussions.

Gabby held back to speak with Stan. He looked
fatigued. Being president was one thing, but having to preside over
a sticky legal issue quite another.

"How long is this likely to go on before
resolution? she asked.

His mental distraction caused him to pause
before fabricating a response. "Hard to say. If David is
reasonable, we should know in a month or two. If not, it will take
much longer. Litigation moves slowly."

"I hope you remember that I'm scheduled for
my sabbatical after
Pesach
. You don't
think this might derail it, do you? There have already been two
postponements."

"Too early to tell. Make your plans, Gabby.
We'll just have to monitor the situation and make adjustments as
needed."

"You haven't forgotten about this sabbatical,
have you?"

His lips curled like a child's about to cry.
"How could we? It's been on our agenda for months, but we haven't
yet found your replacement. That's another rickety bridge to
cross."

"Need I remind you how capable Asa is?"

There was an uncharacteristic wry look on his
face as he scrutinized Gabby. "Given the Morgenstern problem, I
think the board will want to give serious thought to letting him
run the congregation, even temporarily. The trustees have a phone
conference on the matter scheduled for tomorrow."

"There's no one more able than he. I most
certainly hope nobody will blame him for the accident."

Stan, usually supportive of the rabbinical
staff, was suddenly professionally aloof, more a lawyer than a
congregational president. "That remains to be seen. Attitudes are
strange states of mind. Often, there's no accounting for them."

"Is the board having second thoughts?"

"Let's put it this way. A dark cloud covers a
wide swath of territory. These will be trying times, to say the
least."

"I hope you won't postpone my sabbatical a
third time," she voiced a bit more disappointment than was politic,
but her frustration over the matter was unquenchable. "The
congregation owes this to me, Stan. I won't say my batteries are
spent, but the juice is mighty low. There haven't been any easy
years since I came aboard. Seems like there's always an emergency
de jour
. But this is the first time we've
had an associate rabbi capable of running the place."

He interjected, "You were associate when Joel
Greer brought scandal to our pulpit. Without you to pick up the
pieces, I really believe we would have splintered and broken into
tiny fragments."

"I rest my case, Counselor. The congregation
owes me time off."

***

Among Gabby's innovations at Ohav Shalom was
an annual New Years Eve service. Yes, of course, Jews had their own
Rosh Hashonah in the autumn, which related to a lunar calendar, but
the reality was that as denizens of the western world, they also
felt their old year closing down in late December and a new
calendar emerging with January. It turned out that her intuition
proved accurate. In addition to the festive Rosh Hashonah in
autumn, many of her congregants wanted to say goodbye to the old
year on December 31 in a formal manner. The service at Ohav was
scheduled to start precisely at 7 p.m. and end at 8:30 so that the
worshippers were free to welcome the New Year afterward with
streamers and Champagne. When pondering an address for this New
Years service, she faced a difficulty. TV commentators,
politicians, entertainers, writers, clergy, and just about anybody
who had access to an audience interpreted the significance of a
retiring old year and plans for the new. Just about everything that
might be said had already been said. People had become glutted with
wisdom and eventually tuned out. And when the witching hour of a
new year had past, what then? In the end, she settled for a modest
theme of thanksgiving. American Jews had much to be grateful for. A
small people, who by all logic should have perished in the cauldron
of previous centuries, had survived and become a valued component
of American society.

During her sermon, Asa disappeared and
re-emerged beside a huge pipe organ in the choir loft. An
improviser by nature, he composed music as he played, often
contending that for him, playing and composing amounted to pretty
much the same thing. His fingers struck out new melodies, rhythms
and harmonies as easily as old ones. For the New Year, he made a
habit of writing a new composition. And thus, like the service
itself, a new custom at Ohav was born. Staccato notes were peppered
with a private brand of syncopation. His musical phrases reached
into high octaves, evoking optimism. Toward the end of the
composition, the music accelerated in both volume and tempo, coming
to a finale with a series of subdominant chords without resolution,
symbolic of the open and untested year to come.

As music and prayers came to an end, Gabby
concluded with a benediction;
Yisef Adonai, veni
oovenay chem., key nistatar ish merachoo
. 'May the Lord
watch between you and me when we're apart, one from the other.' It
was precisely 8:30 p.m. when she released her congregants to dash
off and celebrate in a less modest manner.

Anina Norstrom was waiting for Asa outside the
robing room. Cantor Reuben Blass, a self-effacing, non-judgmental
man in whom envy was unthinkable, was ebullient with praise for
Asa's composition and insisted that it be included in a CD of
liturgical music, which his association of cantors was producing. A
lover of music in almost any form, including jazz and rap, he
stated a determination not to let Asa's music go unrecognized. His
enthusiasm was manifest in a powerful bear hug, which nearly pulled
Asa off his feet.

Anina, an elegant dresser whose wardrobe came
largely from New York boutiques, wore a stunning cardinal red dress
with exposed shoulders. She planted a proprietary kiss upon Asa's
cheek, a statement of public claim, and reminded him that they had
not one but two parties to attend.

Gabby no longer enjoyed New Year's Eve
bashes. This was not to say she didn't like socializing on other
occasions. But not New Years. She made excuses to friends, refusing
a host of invitations. Instead, she reserved crossing the threshold
of a new year for memories of the late Joel Fox. When he perished
in the spring while saving her life in Fort Stanton Park, she
pledged to incorporate his lost life into her own and in a large
part kept that vow. She argued to herself that if one gives his
life for you, then are you not obliged to carry the lost spirit
into your world? Without Joel's sacrifice, there would be no new
year to celebrate.

In the sanctuary foyer, Stan Melkin and his
family circled about with greetings. It was clear that his two sons
were eager to depart, but Stan lingered for a final comment. "I've
spoken with board members about your sabbatical, Gabby. We must
discuss this right after the holiday."

She was taken back. "What's to discuss, Stan?
I'm making plans."

His younger son tugged at his arm. The
synagogue foyer was now nearly empty. "Let's leave this for the new
year. We all recognize our obligations."

She didn't like what she heard. The sub-text
was all too clear.

As soon as the last congregant disappeared,
Ohav's custodian, Rafael “Doc” Veracruz, switched off the main
chandeliers.

Gabby used his nickname "Doc" to address him.
She had never learned how he had been so knighted. "Doc, please
lock the street doors and go home. I'll let myself out. We'll see
you next year.
Un buen neuvo ano para usted.
Senor Veracruz
."

Nicaraguan born, the 54 year old janitor had
lived in the States for the better part of his life. Gabby didn't
know anything about his family or if he was an illegal alien. Ye he
remained in the shadows of congregational life – steadfast and
loyal. When something needed to be done in the building, he was
always there, no matter how strenuous or at what hour. To her
knowledge, never had a function been postponed because he failed to
set up a room, and never had he complained about having to remain
on duty because congregants needed to be on the premises well after
working hours. Her conversation with him had always been cordial
and respectful, but never personal. He seldom spoke Spanish on the
job, but seemed to take pride in referring to her as
mi rabbina.
"Si, mi rabbina, I'll lock up."

From the main sanctuary, she made her way to
a smaller chapel lined with inlayed polished walls and
multi-colored stained glass panels depicting biblical scenes and
calligraphy. Ornate chandeliers cast the shadow of a candelabrum on
a plush ochre carpet. Thick teak doors insulated the sanctuary from
ambient noise. The quiet hum of tranquility was almost palpable.
Two lights recessed in the ceiling bathed the cavernous space with
pale luminescence. Here she felt the protecting wings of the
Shechinah
, the Divine Presence on Earth,
wrapped around her.

The pulpit, with its woven tapestry, was
raised two steps from the sanctuary floor. But for the moment,
Gabby wanted nothing of her rabbinical persona. She was content to
sit in the first pew and let her mind luxuriate in quiet
reflection, which began with a release of mental focus. Eventually,
her inner eye cleared on the image of Joel Fox's face as she lay in
Fort Stanton Park, beaten and wounded. For many months after this
ordeal, her memory played amnesic games failing to refresh his
image. There was no recall of the horrid details. But of the
succeeding months, as the trauma subsided and the body healed,
small fragments of memory crept back into her consciousness. One
day her memory exploded, releasing full details of the nightmare.
Joel was kneeling above, his lips close to hers, uttering, "It's
all over, Love." An instant later, she heard the shots that claimed
his life. His body slumped over hers and for a fraction of time,
they were united.

"Mi rabbina," Doc's voice carried from the
chapel's vestibule. It was necessary to repeat this because Gabby
was lost in thought. "Mi rabbina."

She turned to see Doc Veracruz silhouetted by
lights from the outside corridor. "Didn't I tell you to go home to
your family."

"No, mi rabbina. I got no family. As long as
you're here, I stay. People loco these days. Tonight they all loco.
I don't want nothing to happen to you."

That he had no family with whom to celebrate
struck her with horror. No one should pass through the portals of a
new year alone, and she was suddenly humbled by her previous
insensitivity. Everyone at the synagogue took him for granted,
unaware of his solitude. It was shameful that she hadn't thought of
that before. Such loneliness was not uncommon. It scratched the
surface of many who lived and worked in a big city. "Well then,
Doc, you must come and sit next to me and we'll enter the New Year
together. Just you and me."

"No, No, mi rabbina. There's a Chinaman
waiting outside on the street. When I checked to see if everybody
left, he was there. He asked if you were still inside. Looks like a
bad hombre to me. I told him you were, but I don't wanta let you go
out there alone. Too much locos.

"Chinaman? That's odd," she replied. "How's
he dressed?"

"Jeans."

"And he asked for me?"

"Si, for rabbina."

"I can't imagine why any Chinese man would
want to see me tonight, but if you're sure he's been waiting for
me, bring him in. I'll see him here."

In the first pew, seated in the corner with her back
to the mahogany siding and staring at the stained glass panels
across the aisle, Gabby heard, "Mi rabbina." Doc's Hispanic
intonation greeted from the rear and awakened her from a momentary
lapse of consciousness. She rose to observe two men standing in the
arched doorway, but the light was dim and she could not recognize
the individual Doc had escorted from the street. An awkward moment
elapsed as she stepped into the aisle and moved to meet them.

"Happy New Year, Gabby," the voice was that
of Kye Naah. If Doc had recognized him as Korean and not Chinese
this misunderstanding would have been averted, but then how could
she have expected him to know the difference?