11. The Bishop’s Funeral

11. The Bishop's Funeral

It's strange that the people of the Book can also communicate with gestures, motions without even words to go with them. The ladies are expert at this. One lady looks at a second and twitches her head a millimeter toward a third lady. The second lady also looks at the third and raises her eyebrows. That means that a trial was held and sentence passed.

Or when Mendl Mossinger, our butcher in Holoscheitz, rises to lead us in our Shabbos morning prayers: Now, Mendl is an upright Jew, a careful butcher, and an honest business man – unlike kosher butchers in other towns, he doesn't charge sky-high prices just because his meat is kosher. But Mendl has an idea that he is a bit of a cantor, which he isn't. So when he's there up front, and begins to show off a bit, one worshipper behind him will wrinkle his nose, another will roll his eyes to heaven, a third will lay his hand on his cheek. Without a word, the critics have spoken.

I can joke about it now, but I recall a time when a gesture involved the whole Jewish community of Holoscheitz in danger to life and limb, and a certain motion by Rabbi Yehoshua the Wise – But why am I telling you the end? You have to hear it from the beginning to understand.

 

Of course, every Jew in Holoscheitz noticed the tall thin man sidle around the market place. Especially on a Thursday morning, when practically every housewife in the town was out shopping for Shabbos. Naturally, I, Reb Sender, the shochet, the ritual slaughterer of chickens, was there, too, Thursday being my busiest day.

As I say, he was tall, wearing a dark threadbare suit, peasant cap over a longish face, and eyes that darted from Jew to Jew, probably expecting us to attack him with the horns on our heads. Most of us didn't know who he was. My stand was in front of the wine-shop, and Tuvia the wineseller was standing outside his shop waiting for the next customer. He came up behind me and whispered, "That broomstick, there – He's from the church. A verger, they call him. I deal with him on the sly when I take a few bottles of slivovitz over at night for the priest. He's like a shammas in our shul, a thousand differences between the two! What does he want wandering around the market?" In a minute, the broomstick's identity reached every ear in the marketplace.

He happened to be near me when he stopped, bewildered. He looked down and saw my knives laid out and some chicken blood spatters on the ground. I thought he was going to faint at my feet. The Adam's apple in his scrawny neck leaped a few times like a frightened frog before he could get a word out.

"Where is the house of the Jewish priest?" he asked.

Having a bit of an antic sense of humor, I gravely pointed the way to him with a knife. When he was observed approaching Rabbi Yehoshua's house, a pall of silence fell over the entire market, which in itself is a kind of miracle on a Thursday morning.

A little while later, I was summoned to the Rabbi's house by the Rebbitzin herself no less, and thus I was with the Rabbi from nearly the first to the last in this affair of the bishop's funeral, and he and the Rebbitzin told me everything that went on otherwise, so let me tell you the story straight from here on.

 

This verger knocked on the door and the Rebbitzin answered it after a moment. The Adam's apple worked up and down a few times before he was able to say: "I'm from the church. I have a message for the Jewish priest."

"Come in," the Rebbitzin said. "I will tell him."

The man stepped in as if he was entering the first circle of Hell, took his cap off, and stood straight. Inside the Rabbi's study, the Rebbitzin announced, "A man from the church, Yehoshua. He has a message for you."

Slowly Rabbi Yehoshua lowered his pen. "From the church," he echoed. "I don't imagine he bears us a blessing. Well, bring him in."

A moment later the cadaverous man stood, hat in hand, a few steps inside the study-room's door.

Said the Rabbi, "I understand you have a message for me."

Again the gulping silence. Then: "You are summoned to the Church by the good Father Alois Thaddeusca. This morning."

The Rabbi absorbed the message, pondered it. He didn't much like the "summoned", but there would be no point in standing on pride or ceremony. A summons to a Jew from the local priest is, at best unusual – at worst, catastrophic. This priest, Alois Thaddeusca, was fairly new, and the Rabbi had never met him, nor wanted to.

"Tell your good father that I will come shortly."

The man gratefully bobbed his head – not because of his success, but because his mission was over so quickly. He seemed to vanish. With equal magic the Rebbitzin appeared in the place he had vacated. "Well?" she inquired.

"I am summoned," replied Rabbi Yehoshua sardonically, adding, "I don't want to go alone, Gita. I want a witness along. Please go to the market and ask Reb Sender the Slaughterer to come to me immediately. Tell him that he should be back in an hour or two. I know that this will cause a bit of panic in the marketplace, but there is no other way. You stay on and purchase what you need as calmly and normally as possible."

A few minutes later, concerned, worried, I knocked on the Rabbi's front door. The Rabbi was waiting for me, jacket and hat already on. Trying not to betray a nervousness that he felt (Rabbi Yehoshua the Wise nervous didn't help my own feelings), he told me, "I am summoned to the local priest. I haven't the slightest idea why, but I don't want to go there alone. I want a witness to what was said. I asked for you, Reb Sender, because you are a man of perception and have been out in the world more than I have. Of course, you have every right to refuse to go with me."

I was disturbed, pleased, shocked. "Thank you for the opportunity to withdraw," I said. Then, trying to sound jocular – my antic humor again: "But I shall not give up this possibility of martyrdom."

It did get a tiny smile from the Rabbi. "Shared martyrdom. Do you think they will chant dirges after us a hundred years from now as we still do for the martyrs of the Crusades?" Auto-da-fe humor, you might call it.

Knowing that all eyes followed us, we walked as if we were on a pleasant Shabbos afternoon stroll, chatting away between us. You'll excuse me if I don't tell you what we talked about, because frankly I don't remember. I do remember that all too soon we passed the front of the church. Most of it was plain discolored brick, topped by a flattish belfry. The front door was decorated with what I supposed were scenes from their bible. They looked like amateur work by a local artisan. I couldn't tell what any one of them was about, although to tell truth, I don't know anything about their bible. The door to the dim inside of the church stood partially open, but we went on to the residence next door.

Rabbi Yehoshua knocked. In a moment, the residence door opened halfway and a stout middle-aged woman who looked like she had vinegar for breakfast peered out as if she expected stray dogs to be out there, and, as far as she was concerned, was right.

"We are summoned to the priest," Rabbi Yehoshua told her in Polish.

"In the church," she muttered and commenced to close the door.

I stepped up and pushed back. "No," said I in a strong voice. "We will wait here! Stand aside!"

Scowling but responding to a voice of authority, she did so and reluctantly waved toward a door.

"Now go inform the priest that we are here," I ordered her.

She frowned mightily, but went. I said to the Rabbi, "A peasant is a peasant, in a field or in a church. Talk to them as if you were a poretz and they will obey – except when they're drunk."

"Or in the midst of a pogrom," added the Rabbi.

"That, too," I agreed.

The room behind the door was obviously a waiting room. On the wall confronting us was a double-barred crucifix complete with a statue of their god hanging from several polished nails. He was discreetly covered with a multicolored loin cloth. On another wall, a painting of what was probably the Archbishop standing, staring out, garish  skullcap and sash. A table of dark wood stood along a wall with a samovar on it. At the other wall, two straight-backed chairs faced a throne-like seat, and that was all.

Rabbi Yehoshua indicated that chair, and said, "That's his throne, we sit on the other ones," and we did so.

A few minutes passed and the door opened. In walked a man above middle height, long black straight hair parted in the middle as was their custom; his church gown was a kind of long-sleeved vest attached to a long cassock. His feet were bare in sandals to symbolize humility. His face was open and expressive, but I noticed at the corners of the mouth touches of dissatisfaction. I'm sensitive to these things. I read faces. The security for my job as a ritual slaughterer in the towns where I worked depended upon my being able to read the twinges on the face of the rabbi, the rebbitzin, the butcher, and especially the ladies who brought over the live chickens to be slaughtered. A trimmed black beard and mustache adorned the priest's face. His eyes were bright and keen with no room for humor or kindness. They had cunning, not low cunning – ambition, rather. Holoscheitz was a stepping stone for young priests, or a graveyard for old ones.

He stood there a moment regarding us. Then he said in a modulated voice, in Polish, "You do not rise? It is not for me that I ask," his lips forming an indulgent smile, "it is a gesture of respect for the religion I represent."

The Rabbi replied, "Sir, I and the religion I represent are older than you and yours."

God in Heaven, I thought, have I got a Rabbi with a sharp head and a brave tongue to match!

The priest's eyes sort of clicked. A kind of satisfaction flitted through them that the man before him was not a scraping little Jew, but someone worthy of him. He decided not to make an issue of sitting or rising. He sat in the ornate chair and arranged the skirt of the cassock.

He looked at Rabbi Yehoshua. "I am Father Alois Thaddeusca. You must be the Rabbiner [using the official government title], and this gentleman?" He merely glanced at me.

"A religious functionary in my community." (I didn't even understand the Polish of this remark and had to ask Rabbi Yehoshua later what it meant.)

The good father paid no attention to me thereafter at all.

"I believe that this is the first time we have met. The two shepherds of Holoscheitz. Doesn't your religion forbid such encounters?"

"Not at all," replied the Rabbi. "Ours is a religion that at once is inward unto ourselves, but is a light unto the nations, as the Bible says."

The smile still held indulgently on the priest's face. "But the light has gone out, has it not, Rabbiner, to shine on another faith? We believe in your bible but you do not believe in ours. It seems, to say the least, unfair. Moreover, history has proved you are wrong not to accept the god your ancestors killed, for you are under the hand of those who worship him."

"Sir," the Rabbi said, "I did not realize that I was – invited here to participate in a disputation. I would have prepared for it, and would have expected to see bishops and archbishops in attendance."

A bark of a laugh escaped the lips. "Quite right! I meant only chit-chat. I – summoned you here for quite another reason. Bishop Osip Jalewski is dead. As you may know, he was the priest in Holoscheitz some years ago."

Yes, we knew Osip Jalewski very well. He had been a narrow-minded, bigoted man. He once refused to allow a Christian doctor to visit the Jews during an epidemic.

"Ah," breathed the Rabbi. "I am sorry that he has passed away at this time."

Familiar with the Rabbi's humor, I thought I understood the innuendo to mean that it was too bad he didn't pass away years ago. I think that also the priest caught Rabbi Yehoshua's under-meaning, for the muscles of his face set a bit. But the words could also imply that, by his death at this time, the world was deprived of a great future, so the priest could say nothing about it. Yet a slight gleam of challenge did enter his eye. This Rabbi truly was a worthy contender.

He said, "The Bishop expressed a death-bed desire to be buried here in Holoscheitz, where he had spent so many fruitful years as a simple town priest, before he was elevated to the bishop's post. I have been instructed by the Archbishop to arrange a funeral befitting such a personage. Indeed, the Archbishop himself intends to attend. Therefore, the funeral must be as impressive as deserved."

He looked meaningfully at the Rabbi. The look meant that he expected the Archbishop to be suitably impressed and nothing will stand in the way of showing him that this priest knows how to arrange things.

"I expect the Jews in this town will want to show the respect due to a Bishop of the Church," he went on.

Rabbi Yehoshua's face remained impassive. He waited.

"The funeral will take place on Sunday morning. There will be a procession from the train on which the body will arrive to the church. Not a tiny procession, like the ones on a saint's day, but a most lavish one. We shall display the three golden crucifixes that are in our vaults, one to lead the procession, and the others at the foot and head of the coffin. The choir will chant the whole length of the funeral procession from the train to the church. The worshippers will bear banners." The priest's eyes glittered with anticipation. Then they got colder.

"I expect all the Jewish men to stand outside their synagogue as the procession passes." He paused.

The Rabbi didn't flicker an eyelid.

"I expect every one of them to remove his hat and skullcap, so that it will not appear that you are mocking the archbishop's skullcap, if he doesn't wear his mitre."

Still the Rabbi didn't move.

Now the priest laid a special-message look on Rabbi Yehoshua. "I expect you, Rabbiner, as their spiritual head, to show respect for the eminent dead by bowing your head as the coffin, preceded and followed by a golden crucifix, passes in front of you."

I was appalled. This list of demands was not just a showman's idea of a lavish church funeral. This priest had studied up on how to humiliate Jews!

The silence was thick. I watched as the eyes of the two met and held. It was clear that they understood each other very well, no explanations, no interpretations needed. Then Rabbi Yehoshua spoke:

"I shall do what is expected of me."

Expected by whom, the God of the Jews or the priest of the Christians? Again that Talmudic head produced an ambiguous remark that could be taken as defiance but not be faulted nevertheless. The priest gazed at him a moment, as if he understood what I understood, but again let it go.

"I'm sure you will," the priest said grimly. "I'm very sure you will."

In a minute we were back out on the street. The walk home was heavy with silence.

Then the Rabbi murmured, "He is a clever, dangerous man."

I said to Rabbi Yehoshua, "It's not the taking off the hat and the yarmulke. It's the bowing of the head to the crucifixes and the coffin, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said shortly.

Some more silent paces.

The Rabbi murmured, "Some of my teachers and masters may see it as a sign of idol worship, the worst of sins."

I asked, "What do you intend to do?"

"I don't know, Reb Sender. I don't know. First, I shall study the Tractates of the Talmud where the modes of idol worship are discussed and then I shall study the responsa of my masters who may have faced similar situations. Then I shall decide."

By this time we were back on his doorstep, and there at his doorstep stood three horses, one a big horse with no rider, and others bearing uniformed policemen, one holding the reins and the other glumly looking at a silent group of Jews who stood apart, watching. The fear on the faces of the Jews was quite clear. It said: Two visits from the Others in one day! What disaster is about to befall us?

"And now a visit from the Prefect of the Police," said the Rabbi. "Next maybe I shall be honored with a message from the Czar. You go back to the market, Reb Sender. Try to act as normally as possible. Answer all questions by telling them that there's no emergency, all is well with them, and I shall explain in the synagogue on Shabbos. Letting it rest for two days will take the panic out of the air, I hope. I will see you this evening in the Beis Medrash for minchah/maariv."

So I returned to my table, my bins for catching the chicken's blood, and my knives, and was immediately overwhelmed with muttered questions.

I answered in the most off-hand tone that I could. "What's to worry? Everything is under control. God is in heaven and the Jews are in Holoscheitz. Today is Thursday, tomorrow Erev Shabbos. Rabbi Yehoshua will explain everything on Shabbos itself. So. Ladies, where are your chickens? Are you making Shabbos this week or not?"

Tuvia lingered after the crowd around me went back to some kind of normalcy. He was looking at me closely, "Is it true? Nothing to worry about?"

"I swear – no pogrom, no expulsion, no new taxes."

He shrugged his shoulders and returned to his store.

 

The Rebbitzin said to the Rabbi as soon as he entered his house upon his return from the church, "I had to run home from the market when I saw him and his escort. He's in your study. I gave him his favorite slivovitz." She didn't need to identify the "he's" and "him's". Her face was drawn with concern. "Is it bad?"

The Rabbi shrugged. "Could be worse."

When he entered his study, Col. Stanislaus Rudenski was sitting in the visitor's chair, the empty left sleeve, the reminder that he had sacrificed an arm in duty to his country, dangled over the arm of the chair, the other hand lightly held the wine-glass with the slivovitz. His official cap, with the double-eagle badge, lay visor-up on the desk.

The Rabbi had told me once that Col. Rudenski was an uncommon man. "During those excruciating waiting periods in the Army he read books. He hoped to become one day a General of the Army, but he never would have reached it. It was not only because of the arm that was amputated that his Army career was as neatly amputated. The books gave him a contempt for his superiors in the army and in the government, and they felt it. But a hero is a hero. So they made him Prefect of the District Police as a reward for his army service, and now he has utter contempt for the policemen under him as well. Oh, don't suppose he has become a lover of us Jews therefore, but he doesn't blindly hate us either. I've had interesting conversations with him. He tolerates me, maybe a little more than tolerates. Do you remember Leib Wallfisch? Well, Rudenski helped me get the boy into the technical gymnasium in Cracow."

Col. Rudenski stood up when Rabbi Yehoshua entered. The Rabbi waved him down.

Rudenski said, "I heard you had a visit with Father Alois Thaddeusca, Rabbiner." An Army-man has no time for polite chit-chat.

Rabbi Yehoshua sat in his chair. "Yes. He told me what he wants the Jews of Holoscheitz, and me specifically, to do to honor the late bishop at the funeral on Sunday."

"What is it he wants you to do?" asked the Prefect of Police. The Rabbi told him. "Seems simple enough," said Rudenski.

"There are problems," muttered the Rabbi.

Rudenski gazed at him a moment and then at the lights playing in the slivovitz. He wagged his head. "You Jews always seem to find problems in the most simple matters. Do not underestimate the good father Alois Thaddeusca, Rabbiner. He is a dangerous man."

He inserted his one hand into his uniform pocket and withdrew a piece of paper, which he handed over to the Rabbi.

"Read this."

It was a telegram which said, "Funeral procession Holoscheitz Sunday bishop Jalewski. You are hereby instructed to provide police services. Co-ordinate with Father Alois Thaddeusca. Primoyev."

(Primoyev was the Under-minister of Police.)

"How do you interpret the telegram?" Rudenski asked the Rabbi.

"You are ordered to ensure that law and order prevails," replied the Rabbi evenly.

The Prefect grinned grimly. "I'll tell you how I read it: Thaddeusca is a very ambitious priest. In fact, he hopes to be appointed to the late bishop's place, but I know for a fact that it has already been promised to the Grand Patriarch's nephew. Thaddeusca will want to show his Archbishop on Sunday that he can make the Jews dance to his tune. It is more impressive to show that, than to be master of the kennels and simply turn the dogs loose. I mean, if you embarrass him in front of his Archbishop, Thaddeusca will sic the peasants on you."

"And what will you do in that event?" inquired the Rabbi.

Rudenski looked him in the eyes. "I will co-ordinate with the good father, as my orders say. In other words, I shall not interfere with the consequences." Rudenski rose. "I'm sorry, but I cannot take on both the government and the Church."

Silence blanketed the room. Then the Rabbi said: "I understand. Thank you for coming and telling me."

Rudenski put his official cap on his head. "I don't know what your problems are, Rabbiner, but I know you well enough to know that you will solve them."

Now Rabbi Yehoshua smiled. "At the moment, Excellency, I haven't the slightest idea how."

A moment after the front door closed, the Rabbi heard the clop-clop of receding horses. The Rebbitzin hurried into the study and sat in the visitor's chair. "He's gone and you are back. Now, tell me."

So Rabbi Yehoshua went through it all again, this time adding: "There are modes of idol worship that a Jew must allow himself to be killed before he performs them. I'm not sure that bowing the head before crosses with figures on them and a coffin with a dead bishop in it is not one of them. I must do a great amount of research to determine what to do."

Rebbitzin Gita stared at him. "I never tried to influence a legal decision of yours, Yehoshua, and I won't start now. But remember that you are not the only one involved here; there are women and children that stand in your shadow and may suffer for it."

Rabbi Yehoshua said, "I know, Gita, but there are wiser men than I who have faced similar decisions. Let me find out what they have said." And he pulled the first big volume off the shelf.

 

That evening, Rabbi Yehoshua reported to the Community Committee about our visit to the priest and the Prefect's visit to him. After all, as the leaders of the community that will be involved on that Sunday, they had a right to know. They left the meeting worried, perplexed, feeling the weight of their responsibility. I'm sure that every one of them looked differently at his wife and children that night.

 

I have to say that as usual Rabbi Yehoshua was right: the atmosphere in the town thinned out a bit with the departure of the police and the peaceful passing of hours. That didn't mean that everything suddenly became normal. Plenty of eyes looked over plenty of shoulders up the road out of town, and plenty of chapters of Psalms were uttered under breath. But hours of quiet brought some quiet of soul.

Friday night came and all the men crowded like every Friday night into the synagogue. I'm sure the Rabbi felt the gazes of expectancy constantly upon him, but he acted like always. He prayed, he sang, he said not a word about the bishop's funeral until Shabbos morning, just before the "Merciful Father" prayer in memory of the communities wiped out during and since that great spiritual exercise called the Crusades. Appropriate place in the service, no? He signaled the cantor that he would ascend the pulpit.

Now you must understand that it was customary for the Rabbi to address the people formally only twice a year – the Shabbos before Yom Kippur and the one before Passover. If he rises for a third time, it is usually time for special pleading to the Almighty and/or the packing of one's traveling bags.

The hush was as thick as an eiderdown quilt.

"Fellow Jews," he said, "as you all probably know I was summoned a couple of days ago to meet with the local priest. The reason was this:" and he went through again the talk we had with Thaddeusca. "Taking off the hat and the yarmulke, we may feel, is a humiliation, but halachically, it possibly can be condoned. We have been humiliated before and come out stronger for it." He tried a little smile. "We are, after all, a stiff-necked people.

"Similarly, bowing one's head to a great political figure with religious meaning, is not only permitted but enjoined, for we live amongst gentile nations, ruled by hostile governments. But the bowing of the head to statues of another faith and to their dead, is another matter entirely. It may be idol-worship, and you all know that a Jew must suffer death before he commits such an act.

"That act has been required of me, as your Rabbi, and only of me." A wave of an audible sigh broke from the mouth of every worshipper. The Rabbi went on. "It is required of me," he emphasized, "and no one else, and I here command that no one else – no one else – think of joining me in my dilemma as a show of support!

"Frankly, I do not yet know what I shall do tomorrow. My greatest fear is what will happen to you – afterwards. Therefore, at the end of the Shabbos tonight, you shall prepare quietly for a pogrom, God forbid. Secret cellars will be cleaned, lookouts posted at the edge of the town. Messengers ready to jump on horses to warn other towns, and so forth.

"As for now, let us say the 'Merciful Father' prayer with special attention and fervor, and may God deliver us from this new peril."

At the end of services our community chairman, Reb Mordechai Thaler, rose to announce that all men are to gather in front of the shul at nine o'clock the next morning. Women and children are not to be seen on the streets.

I think we all prayed for rain that night, for that would mean no procession. Only a quick walk from train station to church. But God, Who thought up this whole affair, was not to be put off like that. Naturally, He didn't send a storm; He sent a beautiful, clear morning. When the Lord thinks up a test, it's a real good one! Ask our Father Abraham about the time He required him to go sacrifice his son.

Morning prayers were quiet, and from the look on the Rabbi's face I could tell he was up the whole night studying his big musty folios, piled every which way on his desk – but with no clear decision forthcoming. I admit that I said the prayers by heart and without much thought, because I kept my eyes the whole time on Rabbi Yehoshua.

And then, toward the very end of the service – I could tell that an idea clicked in the Rabbi's mind. At the exact moment that the hand held the tfillin for the head in the act of taking it off, his eyes suddenly took on a distance of thoughtfulness. In fact, I was ready to swear that maybe, perhaps, it was possible, a little smile played in his beard.

As we left, he whispered, "With God's help, we'll wiggle out. But, oh, Reb Sender, do we need His help!" He beckoned to Reb Mordechai. "Listen carefully, Reb Mordechai. Tell the men that they are to watch me. When I remove my hat, they should. When I remove my yarmulke, they should. But to do nothing more! They are to stand like statues, watching me. No movements, no motions, no gestures! Understood? Tell them!"

Reb Mordechai growled, "If anyone blinks an eye even, he will not be called to the Torah for seven years!" And he hurried away.

 

Two hours later, the Rabbi stood by himself in front, the men lined up in rows behind him. The women and girls were home, peeking out from behind curtains, ready to leap down the cellar stairs, if necessary, or to run to the next house that had a cellar. The children were warned not to go outside, or they would get a whack that they would remember until their wedding day.

We waited impatiently. Then we heard the hiss of the train stopping at the Holoscheitz station. Naturally, it was late. This time not even the jokesters could find anything funny to say about that, which is, let me tell you, among Jews, a bad sign.

Finally, down the dusty street, we saw a thin figure rising up over the little hill in our main road, carrying a golden cross on a long pole. We saw the golden statue atop the pole, golden locks hanging over a perfect face, limbs pinned to the crossed pole by golden nails. When the man bearing the cross came closer we saw that it was our friend the verger, who just last Thursday came sneaking into town to summon the Rabbi. This time he looked fearless. He glanced at us Jews but allowed no emotion to come up to his face. Only his Adam's apple betrayed him.

Several feet behind marched a group of boys in choir's outfits – there must have been fifty of them, scrubbed, combed, shining faces, eyes skyward, mouths open in a loud moaning dirge in Latin, I suppose. Tomorrow they will return to this world – dirty, foul-mouthed, and cruel. But, to be fair, our boys are not angels either, once they are outside the cheder.

Then came a boy walking backward holding a big book before the eyes of a single priest dripping water from a swinging censer. He was intoning some prayer from the book in a mournful voice. A little distance behind him came a straggling line of men in dark suits and hats and women with veils over their faces – Jalewski's family, no doubt.

We felt the tension tighten in us, for we knew that the climax was coming now. Our eyes stared at the lonely figure of Rabbi Yehoshua. I remember that I said to myself that the intensity of our watching him will knock him over. He removed his hat. And so did we. Then the yarmulke, and so did we. We waited tensely.

The next thing we saw was the top of another crucifix. Slowly, as befits a funeral procession, more and more of it came up over the rise: the head, the slack body, the pinioned feet of the statue. Another priest came into view, carrying it. Then, a few paces behind, eight black-gowned priests, hands clasped at their waist-lines, eyes lowered, carried the bronze coffin on their shoulders with a cluster of flowers on it. The crucifix and the coffin came closer and closer to us, step by slow step. Then we saw the third cross come into view.

Behind the third cross we saw two men pacing together slowly, slowly, slowly into our view. One was a tall man, white hair flowing from under a mitre, richly dressed in blue and scarlet and white. A broad black sash hung down his side and a jeweled-crucifix hung on a black neckpiece at his chest. The Archbishop, no doubt. I thought his face was surprisingly kind, inclining patiently toward the whispered words of Father Thaddeusca, next to him, who had been observing us critically ever since his eyes came over the rise in the road.

Thaddeusca made a slight gesture toward us and both their faces looked upon us. A smile of triumphant satisfaction broke the bearded face of Father Thaddeusca.

I think the Rabbi waited until he was sure that Thaddeusca was looking at him. Then the Rabbi inclined his head. I was standing right behind Rabbi Yehoshua and when I saw that, I felt like a cold streak of lightning hit me, and I shivered from the top of my bare head to my toes.

But then, my eyes widened when I saw Rabbi Yehoshua make another gesture: with a protracted motion, he passed his hand slowly, ever so slowly, over the bowed crown of his head – like maybe smoothing his hair down, or maybe showing Thaddeusca that his head was bare. It took until the crosses and the coffin had passed and the two men had paced a bit further beyond us, before the Rabbi's hand reached the back of his neck! Then Rabbi Yehoshua raised his head and looked calmly at the priest.

I saw Thaddeusca's face freeze. A puzzled look invaded his eyes as he glared at the Rabbi over his shoulder as he walked on. I could almost read his mind:

- Did the Rabbi bow his head, as required, to show respect for the crosses and the coffin with the eminent dead? Or – is he only showing me that he had removed his skullcap, like a nice docile Jew? But that would mean that he didn't bow to the cross and the coffin after all! Can it be that he actually defied me?

But the Archbishop was tugging at Thaddeusca's sleeve because the priest was lagging behind his place in the procession, and the good father had to turn his head away to listen to the words of his superior.

Close behind them, pranced the horse of the Prefect of Police, seated tall. There was a secret smile on the Prefect's lips, who, sitting high, saw everything. I don't think he understood what Rabbi Yehoshua had done, how could he? On the other hand, I'm sure that a look of shared understanding passed between Rabbi Yehoshua and him. As far as he was concerned, he would not have to make any hard decisions.

Then came a line of mounted policemen, and finally, the rabble of peasants that made up the last of the procession, waving banners above their heads and in some cases in the faces of their fellow marchers. Some of them already looked like they had somewhat to drink to fortify themselves in their bereavement.

 

When we saw the last of our gentile neighbors approach the church, we restored our skullcaps and hats to where they belonged and gathered our perplexed minds around Rabbi Yehoshua. Some didn't even see what the Rabbi had done with his hand, some did, but didn't understand its significance. Reb Mordechai, in his gruff business-man's manner asked the question directly.

However, Rabbi Yehoshua urged, "Not here, not out on the open street, Reb Mordechai. Let us go into the shul for a few minutes."

So we all followed him inside and arranged ourselves around Rabbi Yehoshua.

"The priest will never know," he told us, "whether I bowed my head to his statues and his dead bishop or I merely wanted to show him that I followed his instructions about no hat or skullcap on my head. My gesture robbed the act of its symbolic meaning, so the halacha was not violated. At least I hope my decision was correct. If I'm wrong, I shall have much to answer for when I am called to the Judgment Seat."

Now I chimed in, "After a hundred and twenty years, Rabbi Yehoshua, and then you'll have a whole community of good Jewish men, women, and children to testify in your defense."

Grunts of approval, and the Rabbi continued: "And yet I did not embarrass the priest in front of his Archbishop. The Archbishop was perfectly satisfied, I could see. And the Prefect of Police understood it very well. But Father Thaddeusca will go to his grave (may it be soon) wondering whether I actually bowed my head or not."

He had to quiet the buzz that broke out. "Friends, I believe this crisis is over. I have not made a friend of the priest, but I believe he will do nothing about today. Neither the Archbishop nor the Prefect of Police will understand any anger on his part. Therefore, let us not worry what he may do in the future. Let us now recite the blessing to the Lord for having escaped a present danger."

Which we did and then went about our business. We didn't stay to marvel about Rabbi Yehoshua the Wise. We were used to him and we had a living to make.

I really don't know how the Rebbitzin reacted when the Rabbi told her what he did. Neither ever told me. But I guess she didn't make a tzimmis about it. She's used to him, too.

 

Copyright © Dan Vogel