BOOK
IV:
RABBI GABRIELLE COMMITS A FELONY
Roger E. Herst
The Rabbi Gabrielle Series
Book I: Rabbi Gabrielle’s Scandal
Book II: A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle
Book III: Rabbi Gabrielle’s Defiance
Book IV: Rabbi Gabrielle Commits a Felony
Book V: Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest
See the end of this book for teasers!
Copyright © 2011 by Roger E. Herst
A Division of
Diversion Publishing Corp.
80 Fifth Avenue, Suite 1101
New
York, New York 10011
www.DiversionBooks.com
info@diversionbooks.com
Smashwords
Edition
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you
would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and
did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then
please return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank
you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Please do not participate in or encourage the piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Table Of Contents
Chapter
1
Chapter
2
Chapter
3
Chapter
4
Chapter
5
Chapter
6
Chapter
7
Chapter
8
The
Rabbi Gabrielle Series
When Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn was single, rumors about her bedmates circulated in Washington's Jewish community. Her marriage to Kye Chung changed everything. Once gossipers knew who she was sleeping with, their speculation ceased. The moment she stepped under the marriage chupah, Mrs. Lewyn's sex life – she never took Kye's name – fell off everybody's radar screen and was no more a topic of conversation than the price of corn on last year's commodity exchange. While her marriage solved several public relations questions at Washington D. C's Congregation Ohav Shalom, it opened new questions in her mind. If as a single woman she had been puzzled by the mysteries of sex, being married did little to enlighten her.
After a few months of marriage, the frequency of lovemaking with Kye diminished. At the beginning, sleeping with him had been a command performance. And best of all, no rumors tailed her through the congregation. Though both were dedicated workaholics, they would shuffle their respective schedules to be available for each other, coming home a bit early and getting to work a bit late, and on romantic occasions, rendezvousing in secluded places at lunch time. After six months of wild and movie-like passion, they settled back into old work habits and started postponing physical intimacies. Many evenings, they returned home too late and too exhausted for physical exertion, though at thirty-seven-years of age, she knew it was time to concentrate on getting pregnant. During her ovulation,they made formal dates like doctor appointments and then continuously reminded each other not to forget. They soon experienced what other couples trying to conceive often complain about – conception can be more work than play. What was supposed to be fun, wasn't.
The morning of the twenty-first day of her menstrual cycle, she and Kye pledged to "make it happen" that evening. He was in the midst of merging three small Internet web sites into an on-line campaigning forum and couldn't tear himself from the office until 8:30 p.m. But he promised to be home no later than 9:30. Gabby took the opportunity to work late at Ohav Shalom on a series of Chanukah stories she had promised to publish on the synagogue's web site, providing a new episode each day of the eight-day festival. The evening's goal was to complete the second installment of The Odyssey of Mordecai Yoelson.
A few minutes past eight, Gabby was reviewing her second episode when a vibration from the floor tickled the soles of her feet and traveled toward her ankles. Sometimes after hours, when a heavy bus or truck traveled on the boulevard outside the synagogue, the building would vibrate and trigger a Pavlovian response from her Southern California childhood. She would look for the swaying of an overhead chandelier to confirm an earthquake in progress. But this was no earth tremor or passing vehicle. An hour earlier, Harold Farb, Ohav Shalom's executive director, had popped his head into her office to announce that he was going home and it was now her responsibility to arm the burglar alarm. The danger of being alone in the synagogue after nightfall barely registered upon her for if one wasn't safe in a place of worship, where? But what if the self-locking door had failed to close properly when Harold left? She slipped off her left shoe and pressed her toes against the hardwood floor to absorb additional vibrations.
The thought of calling the police flashed through her mind, but was immediately dismissed. She had always insisted that Ohav Shalom remain open during working hours as a place of worship, meditation and community, despite a Board of Directors increasingly worried about security. After hours was another matter. Unless synagogue activities were scheduled, doors to the street remained locked. To find out who had entered the building, she slipped her foot back into her shoe and rose from her desk.
The secretarial work area that her secretary, Chuck Browner, ruled with the authority of a petty autocrat, looked as it always did at the end of the day – tidy and ready for business the next morning. Past a door marked Rabbi's Study, a long, familiar corridor linked the synagogue's administrative offices to the religious school classrooms. Gabby stepped into the hallway, adjusting her eyes to the darkness and attuning her ears to the silence. At the far end of the corridor near the stairwell, a 24-hour emergency light flickered off then on again. She wondered if the electric power had temporarily failed or if a body had passed between her and the light source. A faint whisper in the distant darkness stopped her progress. "Who's there?" she called out and waited for a response.
"Who is it?" she tried a second time, with no more success.
She asked herself, why wouldn't someone with a legitimate purpose respond? Or, for that matter, throw on the electric switch at the top of the stairwell? A host of bleak possibilities presented themselves, the most compelling to retreat immediately to her study and call the police. But the corridor behind her was an abyss of darkness. The light switch near the stairwell became her new goal. A set of doors to the administrative center had been left open in response to her desire that Ohav Shalom should always promote a feeling of openness. She had passed the first when she was suddenly aware of air swishing behind her. An instant later, an unseen body struck her shoulder. The thrust sent her against a row of confirmation class photographs hanging on the wall, shattering glass and unhooking at least one. Her feet were staggering for footing when a second blow drove into her hip, sending her again against the wall. Next, her arms were roughly wrenched behind her back. While her elbows thrashed in defense and her legs kicked against her attacker, a set of unusually heavy hands denied her feet traction by lifting her from the floor. In the mayhem, her directional compass went haywire. Thoughts of abduction were quickly replaced by fear of rape. In those terrible moments, she asked herself in a moment of unexpected lucidity why she had forgotten to scream. Perhaps because there was no one to hear, or perhaps she was diabolically mimicking the silence of her attacker.
The outline of familiar furniture in Chuck's secretarial station restored her sense of location. She thought she had left lights on in the study, but they were off when she was carried inside and forcefully deposited into her desk chair. It was now clear there were two assailants, one who held her down while another lashed her hands behind the chair with nylon cord. In the dithering speed of the attack, her thoughts expanded in all directions, nothing making sense. "What do you want?" she finally squealed with little expectation of an answer.
A gag wedged between her lips denied her the opportunity to repeat the question. Several lashings of duct tape secured it to her cheeks and around the back of her head. While the second attacker slapped a blindfold over her eyes and secured it with multiple knots, his bushy whiskers brushed against her neck and she became aware of a garlicky odor. Small slivers of faint light crept under the bottom of the blindfold, but beyond that, she could see nothing. Only her legs were still free to resist. But as soon as her assailants finished securing her torso, they bound her legs to the chair with more duct tape, starting at her ankles and working their way toward the knees, all with extra circles for insurance against being forced loose.
Once she was restrained, they seemed to backtrack from her desk. She heard the click of the light switch near the door, first on, then off, perhaps for a final check or a signal to someone outside. A faint suggestion of light snuck under the lower rim of the blindfold, but soon disappeared. She knew her study was now dark, making it appear from the boulevard that she had left for the day. Her door clicked shut. The whole rotten affair hadn't taken more than two or three minutes.
Despite every instinct to explode with rage, she knew that for the moment there was no alternative but to evaluate her predicament. Working herself free was going to be difficult, if not impossible. Getting help? From whom? She tested the bonds one at a time, wishing to be in a movie where the good guy frees himself with the help of broken bottles or sharp metal objects carelessly left behind by the bad guy. Her tongue forced a small pocket in the cloth gag, separating her lips, but the duct tape refused to give more. Tugging and pulling her arms proved fruitless. She could squirm a bit and perhaps create enough imbalance to tumble onto the floor, but what would that accomplish other than to make her more miserable? Besides, if she couldn't control the fall, she might hit her head or break a limb.
It was then that she remembered her date with Kye, asking herself how he would know where to look for her. If he drove by and failed to search the synagogue's executive carport for her Lexus convertible, he would assume she had left for the evening. The telephone on her desk was only an arm's-length away, but might have been a mile. Then an even more alarming thought took possession of her. When she worked late, she had a habit of stopping in the ladies room to relieve herself before driving home, following her own facetious advice to friends, "Never commute without a full tank of gas and an empty bladder." Thought of a pot of green jasmine tea, brewed a half-hour before the attack, plagued her. Had she known what was in store, she would have visited the lavatory earlier, or refrained drinking the contents of two full-sized mugs. Was the physical discomfort she anticipated going to be worse than the humiliation of being discovered sitting in a pool of urine?
She expected a call on her private line from Kye about 9:15 and was not disappointed. The phone rang and rang, perhaps twelve times, but there was nothing to do but listen and cry inside. It wasn't like her not to inform him if she were going to be late and he would undoubtedly worry. At some point, he'd call the police, but perhaps not until the wee hours of the morning. And what would they do?
About an hour after his call, her bladder sent a message of urgency. She ground her teeth behind the gag, determined not to soil herself. Somehow, she would learn how to endure, though it became necessary to concede that under the circumstance such resolve was hollow. The men who tied her up didn't give a hoot whether or not she peed in her pants.
Who the intruders were and what they hoped to accomplish remained a mystery. If burglars, what could they steal other than the silver breast plates and crowns from the Torahs, a half-dozen silver-plated Kiddush chalices from the synagogue museum or the petty cash locked up in the gift shop – most of which was stored behind lock and key? And why attack her? Because they had said nothing there was no hope of identifying their speech. Darkness hid distinguishing features of their faces or their clothing. Other than a blush of bushy whiskers and the smell of garlic, she knew absolutely nothing about them.
Her bonds prevented her from moving to ease pressure in her pelvis. She originally believed that her bladder would expand until the pain became unbearable. But that didn't happen. Instead, the discomfort rose to painful summit, then leveled into a dull, persistent ache. The phone on her desk rang again – this time only for six rings before the caller hung up. Sometime after midnight, sleep took possession of her. She awoke often, each time relieved to find herself sitting on a dry cushion.
Rafael “Doc“ Veracruz, Ohav Shalom's Salvadoran-born custodian, found Gabby a few minutes after 6 a.m. when he normally arrived to prepare the synagogue for the day's business. He immediately noticed that the building alarm was not set and concluded that someone had entered before him. Since the only person who occasionally beat him to work was Rabbi Lewyn, he went directly to her study. His knock on the door failed to wake her and he was about to satisfy his curiosity elsewhere, but decided to see if her study required last minute cleaning. After switching on the lights, he saw Gabby bound in her chair and exclaimed, "Me Dio! Ma rabbina, Que este?"
A few seconds later, he was working on the duct tape securing her gag. Gentle as he tried to be, the tape on her cheeks ripped like miniature rapiers. Her eyes needed to adjust to the blinding fluorescent lights. Before explaining what had happened, she instructed him to remove scissors from her desk drawer and cut the chord and tape holding her arms and legs. Once free to stand, her first reaction was to gaze down at the dry cushion. Had she really beaten her abductors?
"Doc," she pleaded while massaging her cheeks and neck muscles, "please help me to the bathroom. I'm not sure my legs are steady enough to walk."
"What happened, ma Rabbina?" he asked, putting an arm under hers for support.
"Just get me to the ladies room before I explode. I'll tell you the details later."
After relieving herself, she stepped toward the washbasin mirror and inspected her image. A set of exhausted eyes peered back, wanting nothing more than to go home, shower, and collapse in bed. But she knew that was not likely to happen. Though there were only a few facts to relate, it was bound to be a long day debriefing the police.
Doc was dutifully waiting in the corridor to escort her. His support was accepted though by now not required. Once past a pair of steel fire doors, she halted to read an unfamiliar paper banner taped onto the opposite wall. Printed in bold black letters with a felt marker were the words:
The earth lies polluted under its inhabitants
For they have transgressed the laws, violated the statutes,
Broken the everlasting covenant…
Its transgression lies heavy upon it,
It falls and will not rise again…
"What this?" Doc asked.
Gabby was never sure how much English, or Spanish for that matter, Doc could read. "It's from the Flood Story in the Book of Genesis," she replied proud of her ability to identify a relatively obscure biblical passage. "And I don't know why it's here. I want to call my husband. Please, stay with me until I'm back in my study, then see if anything is missing or damaged."
Still in the corridor, the pair stopped to gaze upon a confirmation picture that lay among shards of broken glass on the floor. Gabby stooped to retrieve it, but paused, thinking that nothing should be touched until after the police arrived. For the time being, it was enough to note this was a picture of the Class of 1982 – kids who by now had entered into adulthood.
Kye answered her call with a sigh of relief. "Where are you, Gabrielle? I was worried stiff. I couldn't figure where you might have gone. Your office was dark when I drove by."
"I was sitting at my desk all night. But the lights were switched off. Two men broke in about eight last night. They tied and gagged me. I couldn't move until Doc found me a few minutes ago. If you had looked in the carport you would have seen my car. I presume it's still there. I've got to call the police."
"Did they hurt you?"
"A few bruises. I'm tired but okay. I can tell you it wasn't pleasant not being able to use the lavatory. I'm afraid it's going to be a long day."
"I'm coming over," he declared.
"I appreciate it, Love, but that's not necessary. I promise I'm all right."
"I'm coming," he insisted.
"I know you're up to your eyeballs with the merger. Do what you have to, then let's meet at home this afternoon. We've missed a crucial day, you know. I can't guarantee my physical condition, but we must try."
"I'm on my way to Ohav "
"I'd love to go home, take a shower and cuddle up with you, but somehow I fear the worst isn't over."
"See you as soon as I can get there, Lovey."
Her next call was to the police and after being shuffled between several receptionists eventually spoke with a precinct sergeant who listened sympathetically, taking notes. He asked several times if the intruders were still in the building and if she wanted medical attention, then cautioned about touching anything that might bear fingerprints.
"This sounds like a hate crime to me, Rabbi. That means we've got to inform the FBI. I'll dispatch officers patrolling in the neighborhood and send a team of detectives just as soon as they're free," the sergeant said. "It's still early, so be sure they can get into your church… sorry, I mean your temple… or whatever you call your church."
By now her hand was trembling and her fingers could barely punch the right telephone keys to reach Harold Farb, the synagogue's executive director. Under stress, her limbs often trembled, but the phenomenon seldom plagued her during the actual moments of crisis. The onset usually happened afterward.
Harold Farb joked how he could not possibly function without several cups of black coffee to wake him up in the morning. When his wife, Felicia, handed him the phone about 6:34 a.m, he growled with characteristic moodiness that on bad days it might remain with him into mid-morning. Gabby bypassed his coarseness and described what had happened, then in the middle of the conversation exclaimed, "…Harold, I just thought of something terrible! I forgot about the Seferei Torah!"
He snapped at her, "Gabby I told you we should lock the sanctuary at all times except during services."
"We've been through this train station before, Harold. Yes, we've been violated. Yes, they tied me up all night. But we'll lock our people out of their sanctuary over my dead body. I refuse to capitulate to thugs. I can't argue with you now. Please, just come as soon as possible."
"The silver breastplates and crowns are locked away in the vault. I doubt common thieves would have the wherewithal or the inclination to break in."
"I'm worried about the Torah scrolls. I'm going to check."
"Don't do that. Wait until the police arrive! Nothing can be gained by rushing there. I'm on my way as soon as I can get my pants on."
"The Torahs are priceless. Everything else here can be replaced."
"Don't exaggerate. I'm on somebody's mailing list and am offered Torahs at bargain prices every month."
"Okay, but we can't duplicate our Holocaust scroll. The intruders seemed to have a purpose. Their movements felt choreographed."
"Do you feel strong enough to report to Miles Boronsky. He should be informed immediately."
"You do it, please. I've got my hands full. Kye's coming over and the police are on their way."
Dashing to the sanctuary through a series of dark hallways, Gabby had a gnawing premonition that her nightmare was only beginning. If the intruders damaged the Temple, there would be hell to pay for her insistence that the sanctuary remained, like Catholic churches, open to the public. She never wanted Ohav Shalom to become a fortress, locked and inaccessible to its members, particularly the sanctuary where folks might come to pray, meditate, dream or just doze in God's presence. It was particularly satisfying to invite her parishioners to open the Ark, Aron-ha-Koddish, and remove the Torah scrolls containing the Five Books of Moses. These were, after all, their Torahs. Why, she argued, commit Judaism's holiest books to a tomb entered only by rabbinical high priests? This was particularly true when training Bar and Bat Mitzvah boys and girls. Whenever possible, she promoted bonding with Judaism's past by encouraging them to closely examine the sacred words and touch the Torah parchment, particularly the Holocaust scroll. All that, she had an acute prescience was about to change.
Inside the cavernous sanctuary, early morning sunlight had just begun to filter through multi-colored stained glass panels on the eastern wall. She knew the location of the electric switches for the massive overhead chandeliers, but natural light was sufficient. She found herself racing down a side aisle, then scampering up half-dozen shallow stairs to the Ark where, for a brief instant, she paused to scan the Hebrew written above – Dah, lefnei Atah Omed, Know Before Whom You Stand – before tugging at the heavy bronze doors inscribed in silver with ten Hebrew letters corresponding to the Ten Commandments.
Ohav Shalom owned seven Torahs, each acquired at a different period of the synagogue's growth. On occasion, the Board of Directors lent one or two to smaller, less affluent congregations, but on principle had never sold or retired any. The current inventory was five, each dressed in elaborate white silk covers decorated with golden filigree letters and assorted ornamentation. On first glance, it looked to Gabby as though the intruders had ignored them altogether. Her second looks was not as satisfying. Her spirits plummeted when she noticed at the top of one cover there were no wooden handles protruding through holes. Like probing for a sock lost under bed sheets, her fingers rummaged for the hidden scroll but found nothing. The cover was there, but the Sefer Torah was gone! She lifted the limp cloth to discover a sheet of heavy stationery, handed lettered in measured block script, emulating in English Hebrew calligraphy.
Yet will I leave seven thousand in Israel
Those knees have not bowed down to Baal
And whose mouths have not kissed Him.
It sounded to her like a verse from the Prophetic Books but nothing she immediately recognized. To identify the quotation would not be difficult, though at the moment this was far from her mind. The missing scroll was no ordinary Torah, but cherished detritus of World War II. Once stolen by Nazi agents for future display in Hitler's proposed Museum of an Extinct People, it had survived the war in a dank warehouse on the outskirts of Offenbach, Germany. Seven years after the Third Reich surrendered, the new Communist government in Prague took possession of many scrolls plundered by the Nazis and sold fifty for hard cash to Jewish philanthropists from London. Half of these repossessed Torahs were sent to America and distributed to young congregations so that Jewish children might read what Adolph Hitler had promised no Jews would ever read again. For a long while, Gabby stared at the silk cover, both disgusted and perplexed, struck by the irony. This was the second time this Ohav Shalom scroll had been illegally confiscated – first by the Nazis during the War and now by common thieves! Had she underestimated the currency of modern anti-Semitism? Were Neo-Nazis still eager to prey upon the treasures of Jewish memory? Or could this be a Jewish crime?
From the sanctuary, she made her way back to her study, chastising her blindness. Her 35-year-old secretary, Chuck Browner, often accused her of being overly generous in her appraisal of others. According to him, she painted scoundrels in angel's dress, failing to recognize the sinister side of human nature. She was angry enough to believe he was right.
At her desk, she dialed Chuck's apartment in Silver Spring, Maryland. Like Harold, he was a late riser, but if required was prepared to work into the wee hours of the night, causing her to refer to him as "her nocturnal lemur." Over the years, she had nursed him through a string of gay lovers, most of whom provided little long-term satisfaction and much short-term Angst. Chuck reciprocated with steadfast loyalty.
While she continuously received abundant accolades, his role behind the scenes in making her successful often went unacknowledged. By and large, the membership wanted him to remain in the shadows of congregational life and were not interested in his contributions. A secretary was expected to be an unnoticed functionary not a star. He understood this fact better than Gabby and requested she refrain from praising him in public. Her efforts with the congregation's budget committee to see that he received above-average wages were one of the few secrets she kept from him.
"What's wrong, Rabbi Gabby?" he asked before she had a chance to tell him.
"How did you know something is wrong?"
"Your voice. There's a tone that tells me you're troubled. So let's have it."
"Thieves broke into Ohav last night and tied me up, then stole our Holocaust Torah."
"Are you all right?"
"Stiff as hell for being bound into a chair for almost nine hours until Doc rescued me."
"Are you trembling?" "How'd you know that?" she shot back, her voice conveying both irritation and impatience.
"You always tremble when frightened. I'll stop at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way to the 'gog. You need something sweet and gooey to make you feel better. Are the police there?"
She usually avoided the fat and sugar of donuts, but Chuck's suggestion sounded appealing. "I'm waiting for them now," she said. "Harold's calling Miles Boronsky. Members of the Board will want to report to the membership. It won't be long before the press sniffs out a story. I've been trying to keep the synagogue out of the media but here we go again!"
"You attract it like greenbacks attract the Mafia. So long as you're rabbi at Ohav Shalom the press will find you. That's a given. Don't fight publicity, Rabbi Gabby. You're a celebrity in this town and there's no publicity bad for one's career. I'm dressing right now. See you as soon as possible."
Fourteen minutes later, patrolling police officers entered Ohav Shalom. Not far on their heels came a squad of detectives. Like gulls ravaging a school of herring, they photographed everything suspicious and much that wasn't. Forensic specialists treated doorknobs and tabletops for fingerprints. An FBI hate crimes unit arrived at nine o'clock to question synagogue employees. As soon as junior reporters monitoring police radio frequencies understood this was more than routine burglary, television transmission vehicles showed up in the synagogue parking lot. Senior reporters phoned ahead for appointments to interview Gabby. Uninvited, Jewish communal leaders and rabbis arrived to evaluate for themselves.
During several interviews, Kye clung possessively to Gabby, trying to be useful. When she introduced him as her husband, eyes would glaze over in confusion. A Korean American was not what they had expected for the husband of a rabbi and nobody was interested to hear the long story of how he had converted to Judaism. Nor had they the patience to tell it. Together, they were looking for an opportunity to steal away and be alone long enough to conceive a baby. But it became increasing clear that Gabby could not tear herself from Jewish communal leaders and city councilmen who had come to express their dismay. Kye reluctantly left to attend urgent matters at the Herndon headquarters of his newest business venture, Images.com.
By eleven o'clock, Gabby began to regard this cavalcade of visitors as an unnecessary intrusion into the synagogue's privacy.
President of Ohav Shalom, Miles Boronsky, had quite a different idea. He told her by phone, "I've talked to several trustees who want to leave everything exactly as it is so that all our members can see for themselves and draw their own conclusions. Clare Reubenfeld called with results from a telephone poll she's taken with the Religious School Committee and several senior teachers. They want kids in our school to see this with their own eyes, especially the message the thieves left behind."
"Isn't that like a prize fighter displaying his wounds?" Gabby inquired, not at all certain she liked what she sensed was coming. "Do you think it's necessary to display our shame? Do the thieves need such publicity?"
"We've never had the opportunity to teach our kids about anti-Semitism first hand," he answered.
She disagreed with many Jews who sought public sympathy by the exhibition of Jewish suffering. Victimization never struck a psychological chord in her, as she knew it did in many of the post-Holocaust generation. Why her people needed to establish museums to memorialize their losses and defeats confused her. Given her druthers, she would replace the past cavalcade of pogroms, banishments, and massacres with a parade of Judaism's achievements.
"I can't imagine what it must have felt like being tied up like that," Miles Boronsky missed or purposely ignored Gabby's remarks. "It must have been horrible, absolutely horrible. I'm certain the Torah will show up. Somebody will recognize it."
"I'm not so sure about that, Miles," Gabby said, feeling the last residue of strength draining from her body. "There are thousands of prewar Torahs in circulation. Word for word, they're identical. You'd have to be a pretty savvy scribe to notice our particular scroll."
"The most important thing is you're all right, Rabbi. And by the way, I'm convening an emergency meeting at the synagogue at one o'clock. Harold will provide sandwiches. I hope you can make it because we'll want your input. We'll have to make a statement to the press."
"I'm getting many calls of sympathy from Christian colleagues. One asked to bring his confirmation class to see for themselves and to pray in our sanctuary."
"Good. There was a time when nobody would have cared about our misery."
Ten minutes later, Rabbi Cici Landow, Gabby's Associate Rabbi at Ohav Shalom, came to pay her respects, carting on her hip her two-year-old, Joshua, his nose running and his eyes glassy. When he was healthy Gabby found Josh an appealing child. But when ill, most of that appeal vanished. She took a dim view of Cici bringing her children to the shul when performing rabbinical duties.
They spoke about Gabby's ordeal until Cici picked up Gabby's disapproval and said, "Sorry, Josh has had a bad cold for three days now and I hate to leave him with someone when he feels like this. It just isn't fair."
"Where's his father? Can't Abner help once in a while?" Gabby aired her frustration with Cici's Argentine-born husband who she knew barely lifted a hand to help raise his two children.
"In Brazil on business," Cici replied sharply, always defensive when that subject came up and it frequently did. "I know you don't like me bringing my kids to work, but sometimes it's inevitable. Every working mother will tell you that."
Gabby thought momentarily about holding back, but didn't. "You're right, Cici. I'm not a fan of parenting on the job, particularly for professional women. It sends the wrong message. People just won't take you seriously as a rabbi if you're seen distracted by mothering. When was the last time you saw a doctor put his or her child in the waiting room with a coloring book? Or a lawyer's kid playing on the office carpet? Let Abner take Josh once in a while."
"I'm really sorry you don't see the problem, Gabby. I would have thought that you'd be more sympathetic."
"I'm trying to be, but I'm exhausted. Maybe things will look different when this nightmare's past. In the meantime, I need you to help keep this place running while we're under siege. Chuck has a list of people I'd like you to call today."
Cici's response reeked with hesitation. "My schedule is already full. I'll have to check my appointment book and get back to Chuck."
As Cici was about to leave, Gabby stood behind her desk and gestured with her palms. Gone from her voice was the frustration she had felt earlier. "Cici, please imagine sitting in an airplane all night with two oversized people boxing you into the middle seat. Now think of being bound up and unable to move or get to a rest room. Electricity goes out in the plane's cabin and you can't talk to anybody. That's the way I've been all night. I'm under water here and am asking for your help. That's what you signed up for and that's what I expect of you."
"I'll do what I can, but you must give me time to readjust my schedule."
When tired, Gabby's sarcasm erupted. "I once had a dentist who was in the process of retiring and saw his patients only on Wednesdays and Thursdays. When you wanted him to fix a problem it took months for an appointment because all his Wednesdays and Thursdays were filled."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Cici huffed near the door.
"The metaphor is clear to me. I suggest you think about it."
***
After living in Washington for 15 years, Gabby understood how an event such as this was bound to escalate and take on its own history. While she personally wished it would just disappear, she knew that was unrealistic. Assaulting a clergywoman and stealing a Torah struck a sensitive communal nerve. Jews would not be satisfied until the matter was thoroughly aired and publicly recognized. Christians would not be satisfied until they had expressed their horror and pledged to everything possible to bring the culprits to justice. Throughout the long afternoon, Gabby kept glancing at her watch and thinking of her rendezvous with Kye.
By day's end, she was emotionally drained. Harold Farb had his marching orders to lock each office, classroom and conference room door. In addition, he was delegated to beef up the building's night security. She anticipated the zeal with which he would throw himself into an assignment like this.
When she drove into the driveway of her home at 5:14 p.m, Kye was not home. While waiting for him, she used the time for a long-awaited shower, then sat down on the living room sofa in her bathrobe. No candles and no schmaltzy instrumental music for atmosphere. In her dating days, she might have utilized them to create a romantic climate. But since she and Kye had arranged to have sex in advance, such props seemed inappropriate. Besides, what she was expecting to accomplish had far more to do with reproductive biology than romance.
For Gabby, sitting idly, without a book on her lap or a legal pad for scribbling sermon outlines, was most unusual. But this afternoon, she felt no compulsion to fill these minutes with productive work. Kye's tardiness concerned her. She asked herself repeatedly what he had to do at the office that could be more important than conceiving a child? Just because she couldn't tear herself away from the synagogue for a couple of additional hours was no reason for him to be late. As the minutes passed, her impatience brewed into frustration.
His phone call arrived a few minutes before seven. No, he wasn't in his car en route home, caught in traffic on the Capital Beltway. No, he wasn't unexpectedly delayed at Images.com. And no, he wasn't in a hospital room waiting treatment for an emergency. He was on an airplane over Pennsylvania, claiming through the onboard telephone, that an unforeseen mishap commanded his immediate attention in the Manhattan office of a merging partner. To Gabby, this was not only lame but infuriating. There was always an emergency at Images! And often a reason why he couldn't address family matters.
She admired his dedication and understood that success in electronic commerce required him to labor at odd hours. Like her occupation, the eight-hour workday had become an historic fiction. Evenings and weekend were just as productive as weekdays, and if Kye wasn't prepared to work hard, his young competitors would and, as he like to say, "they'll eat me for lunch." Her own job required that she accommodate to her congregants when they wanted her services, not when it was convenient to provide them. And since the merger of Kye's integrated political web site with two California competitors, he had almost doubled his workweek. The integration of different corporate cultures was particularly delicate, to say little about the daunting challenge of mixing three different software codes, developed at different times and by different programmers.
Still, this was beginning of her menstruation and if she and Kye were to conceive this month, the window was narrow. Kye's business trips usually took three or four days and to wait for his return might be too late.
"Why not fly up after your Shabbat services?" he asked on the airline phone. "I'll meet you at La Guardia. We can go directly to my hotel."
Her response was peppered with recrimination. "Because Ohav Shalom has just been burglarized and needs rabbinical leadership. As usual, Cici has a dozen excuses why she can't offer much help. The congregation is outraged. And unlike you, I can't just pick up and leave town on the spur of the moment."
"I promise we'll make love the moment I come home."
"Then come on Sunday. Unless you do, there's no way we're going to get pregnant this month."
"I'll try, but I can't guarantee it, Gabrielle."
"Then send your sperm in a bottle by Federal Express…"she snapped and immediately regretted being crude about such a personal matter.
At that moment, transmission from his aircraft ceased. She had no idea how to re-establish phone contact. Calling an airplane wasn't like phoning across the street to a drug store. Kye didn't call back. Maybe, she reasoned, his plane was flying through an electrical storm. Maybe the phone didn't work at a specified distance or altitude. Who the hell knew? In the end it really didn't matter. The damage had been done.
Getting pregnant proved to be more difficult than she had initially believed. Further delay promised additional problems. After several years of broken promises, Congregation Ohav Shalom's Board of Directors had finally agreed to grant her a long overdue sabbatical, which she carefully planned to coincide with the birth of a baby. To fill in, the congregation contracted with retiring Rabbi Dr. Judah Gould from Providence, Rhode Island, who had agreed to serve eight months in Washington before assuming an administrative post in Tel Aviv. By this time, everybody at Ohav Shalom was sick and tired of her sabbatical problem. Gabby knew that to ask the Board to defer her sabbatical to accommodate a later pregnancy was to risk losing it altogether. In addition, a delay might cause Rabbi Gould, who had obligations in Israel, to change his mind.
While seated on the living room sofa, Gabby's eyes stared into cold, black fireplace and saw nothing. In the course of her rabbinic duties she had counseled innumerable women with marital difficulties. At the time, it never occurred to her that someday she might experience similar troubles. Molding two lives, each with a different set of ambitions and interests, into a family was more taxing than imagined. Kye's ambivalence about becoming a father forced her to estimate how many more seasons her ovaries would produce fertile eggs. Perhaps she had waited too long already. Unanswerable questions, replete with doubts and regrets, were enervating.
After a long interval, she dragged herself onto her feet and stretched. If Kye wasn't coming home, there was no purpose in lounging around in her bathrobe. In the bedroom, she allowed the robe to drop from her shoulders onto the floor and then paraded before the dressing mirror. Her determination to retain a lean, athletic body had paid dividends. In middle age, most of her girlfriends were losing the battle against fat accumulating on their abdomens, hips, and backsides. Many modified their diets and spent long hours at sport clubs doing aerobic exercises. Only the most diligent stayed ahead of the weight curve. Gabby complimented her own efforts. Too bad they didn't arouse Kye more.
A can of tuna soaked in a tart wine vinegar and an English muffin served for her dinner. As was her custom when eating alone, she turned on the kitchen television to catch CNN news. NATO was still wrestling with ethic unrest in the Balkans. Wall Street was nervous about signs of inflation. On the home front, an anchorwoman told of successful triple bypass surgery for Ohio's Senator Arthur Zuckerman and Chairman of the prestigious Senate Committee on Domestic Security. This caught Gabby's attention since the Senator was a member of Ohav Shalom and, while rarely attending functions during the year, always managed to present himself on the High Holidays. Each year, the widowed senior senator would arrive in the sanctuary at the last possible moment, then parade down the center aisle like Julius Caesar returning to Rome after a victorious military campaign, all the while pressing the flesh of his numerous Democrat admirers. She made a mental note to send him a message with prayers for a quick recovery. A hospital visit might be in order, but only if he requested it.
A shrill ring from the phone pierced the babble on television. She believed Kye would call back as soon as his plane landed. If nothing else, she wanted to retract her crack about sending his sperm by Federal Express. Perhaps she had been too quick to reject the idea of flying to New York. She was prepared to do everything possible to get pregnant, even swallow her pride. Depending upon developments at the synagogue, it might be possible to take off on Saturday afternoon for an overnight in the Big Apple. But the voice on the phone wasn't Kye's.
"Rabbi Gabby," it was female, throaty and in apparent pain. "Norma Sylerman here. It's terribly uncouth for me to be disturbing you at home, but I must talk with someone. I saw on television what happened at the synagogue. I know you've had a terrible day. I feel your pain. What those despicable men did was simply horrible. Is this a convenient time for you?"
Gabby wanted to tell the truth and say it was a very inconvenient time, but she didn't. Her resentment at constant invasions of her private time annoyed her more each year, but she had also come to accept the inevitability of interruptions. When she could no longer tolerate it, she resolved to throw in her tallit and yarmulke and retire from the rabbinate. But that time had not yet arrived. She said, "No, Norma. Please tell me what's on your mind."
"Roland is on a bone fishing expedition in the Caribbean and I can't reach him. Our daughter, Carey, just called from Brooklyn. She announced plans to get married and make aliyah to Israel with her boyfriend."
"Are you concerned about her living in Israel or the boyfriend, Norma?"
"Both."
"Is she serious about him?"
"Who knows? I can't imagine she's in love with him. It's no normal romance; this is an arranged engagement. We haven't met the boy. It's very possible she's never even kissed him. Carey rarely calls and I think she did it this afternoon just to torment me."
"I don't understand. Does she think you won't approve of her fiancée?"
"She knows damn well I won't. He's ultra-Orthodox. And I mean ultra, ultra. Baruch Teitelbaum, belongs to a cult called Sh'erit ha-Pletah. I don't even know what Sh'erit ha-Pletah means, do you?"
Gabby's first instinct was to chuckle her amusement but she withheld. Norma Sylerman was the kind of mother who should be delighted that her daughter had found a Jewish boy. But sensing her to be a controlling parent, no one would be good enough for her daughter, particularly an observant Jew. "Not off-hand," Gabby replied. "But there's a reference to a Sh'erit ha-Pletah, a saving remnant of Israelites, in the Book of Deutero Isiash. After the Northern Kingdom of Israel was sacked by the Assyrians in 722 B.C.E, the Second Isaiah spoke about a small group of the faithful that would endure until God saw fit to redeem His vanquished people."
"I don't understand the mentality. Carey told me how wonderful Sh'erit ha-Pletah is, but I don't understand a word she's saying. They have their own Tzaddik, learned leader, who they believe walks on water. They do whatever he says, no questions asked. And this jerk told Cary and her boyfriend to make aliyah. Carey's always admired you, Rabbi Lewyn. You've got to help me reason with her." Norma's words were broken by a sob, immediately checked. "They're so Orthodox she won't even come home to talk with Roland and me. The clan won't let her come to Washington or eat off my un-kosher plates. You can help us, can't you? I know Carey will listen to you."
"I'd have to know more before I make that judgment, Norma. But I hear that you're hurting."
"Carey told me many times you instilled in her a love of Judaism. She often talked about going to rabbinical school and becoming a rabbi just like Rabbi Lewyn."
"Being Orthodox is living Judaism to its fullest," Gabby said, embarrassed for the omniscient tone of this declaration.
"This has nothing to do with Judaism, Rabbi. This is a harpoon thrust at Roland and me. Don't you see, she wounding us with our own weapons? We always wanted her to be a good Jew, to marry a Jewish boy and raise a Jewish family. Now she's becoming a super-Jew, wants to marry a fanatic and live in Israel! She knows Roland and I can't stomach fundamentalism and we're certainly not Zionists. This Sh'erit ha-Pletah rabble is more Orthodox than the Lubovichers. And their Tzadik, Rabbi Olam v'Ed, is a bona fide charlatan. Hell, I don't know if he's even a real rabbi."
"Let's talk face to face. This sounds not only painful but complicated. You can imagine how I have meetings all day tomorrow. Can you come to the synagogue before Shabbat services? I'm afraid I haven't got any other time to meet."
"Help us, Rabbi. I beg of you. Fly up to New York. We'll take care of all your expenses."
"Better you should talk with Carey yourself."
"I offered, but she refuses to see me. She said her father and I could come to her wedding in Jerusalem. I know she'll talk with you. She adores you."
"I'll have to give this some thought."
"There's no other place for me to go. I can't reach Roland. He'll probably call from the fishing lodge in a day or so."
"When is he coming home?
"Next Wednesday."
"Is there anyone at home with you tonight, Norma?"
"No."
"Do you feel strong enough to be alone?"
"I don't know. It's all so horrible."
Gabby possessed a sterling memory for details about her congregants. Seven years before, Norma Sylerman was hospitalized with liver complications. When Gabby visited her in the hospital, she was surprised to find Norma on the floor with patients suffering from substance abuse, not renal complications. Until that moment, Norma had hidden from her the fact that alcohol caused her liver problems. "Do you have friends to stay with this evening?" Gabby asked.
"Oh yes. I need only ask."
"Please do. And if you can't find anyone, call me back. You can stay at my house. The guest-room is available and my husband, Kye, is away. You will call, won't you? Promise?"
Norma hesitated a bit too long to be convincing, then said, "Absolutely, Rabbi."
"I'll call back in a half hour to check on you. Above all, I don't want you alone tonight, Norma."
Cecilia “Cici” Landau became Gabby's associate at Ohav Shalom after the resignation of Rabbi Asa Folkman. Though her appointment required final ratification by the synagogue's Board of Directors, it was Gabby who had been impressed during the initial interviews by her academic achievements and views on involving congregants in synagogue activities. At the time, there had been considerable debate among the membership about having two female rabbis on the pulpit of such a large and prestigious congregation. But, in the end, the Board sought to respect Gabby's wishes, tacitly conceding that Ohav Shalom's luck with male rabbis hadn't been all that good. Gabby's own predecessor, Senior Rabbi Dr. Seth Greer, whom Gabby adored, resigned after an affair with a congregant. Then, shortly after coming to Washington, Gabby's newly appointed associate, Rabbi Dov Shellenberg, became infected with Potomac fever and left the rabbinate to become a White House Fellow, a steppingstone to a career in politics, not Judaism. When his successor, Rabbi Asa Folkman, was targeted in a frivolous lawsuit for professional negligence, he resigned his post to write music in California. At the time of her appointment, Rabbi Cici Landau's unassuming, winsome personality seemed a perfect complement to Gabby's flamboyance.
What had slipped during the hiring phase, Gabby recognized only months after Cici came aboard as Associate Rabbi. Despite having authored four articles about Jewish creativity in the arts, Cici's thinking proved to be predictably conventional. Her sermons, which rarely strayed from the weekly biblical lesson, failed to stimulate sufficient interest to be remembered a few minutes after delivery. Unwilling to commit herself to a project until blessed by a higher authority in the field, she allowed synagogue programs for which she was responsible to languish. Such professional caution transferred into daily life. Gabby noted that she wouldn't see a movie or dine in a restaurant that had not been favorably reviewed in The Washington Post. And a book wasn't worth reading until had made it to The New York Times Best Seller List. Other than the welfare of her family, no fire appeared to burn in her belly. In many ways she was a model Jewish wife and mother, but that, in Gabby's mind, left much to be desired in an associate.