Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry Read Online Free PDF Page A

jowls and heavy black eyebrows.
    He grasped the rabbi’s hand and wrung it gratefully. “Thank you, Rabbi, thank you. I would have come for you myself but I didn’t like to leave my father.” He turned to the chauffeur. “You can go now, but leave the car here. I’ll drive them back.” To his guests he explained, “All the servants except the housekeeper have tonight and tomorrow off. My father’s idea that they mustn’t work because they are of our household. But I’ll drive you to the temple myself. Don’t worry, you’ll get there in time.”
    “How is he?” asked the rabbi.
    “Not good. The doctor just left about half an hour ago. We had Hamilton Jones. You’ve heard of him, I’m sure. The biggest man in the field – professor at Harvard.”
    “Your father’s conscious?”
    “Oh, sure. Sometimes he dozes off for a little but he’s conscious all right.”
    “Was this something sudden? It seems to me I saw him only recently at the minyan.”
    “That’s right, Tuesday – Tuesday he went to the minyan. Then Wednesday he’s a little out of sorts, and Thursday he runs a little fever and he’s coughing, and then today when it keeps up I figure I better bring in somebody. It’s a strep infection, the doctor says. And you know how it is, he’s an old man – at his age, any little cold it can become serious.”
    They paused in the ornate foyer. “Do you mind waiting here, Mrs. Small?” asked Goralsky. “The housekeeper is upstairs –”
    “Certainly, Mr. Goralsky. I’ll be all right. Don’t mind me.”
    “This way, Rabbi.” He led him to the wide marble staircase, which had a thick-piled red carpet running down the middle.
    “When did he ask for me?” the rabbi asked.
    “Oh, he didn’t ask for you, Rabbi. It was my idea.” Suddenly Goralsky seemed embarrassed. “You see, he won’t take his medicine.”
    The rabbi stopped and looked at him incredulously.
    Goralsky too stopped. “You don’t understand. The doctor said he had to take his medicine every four hours – all through the night. We even have to wake him up to give it to him. I told the doctor I didn’t like to wake him up, and he said if I wanted my father to live I’d wake him. They have no heart, these doctors. To him, my father is just a case. This is what I tell you to do – do it or don’t do it, that’s your business.”
    “And you want me to give him his medicine?”
    Goralsky seemed desperate to make the rabbi understand. “The medicine I can give him, or the housekeeper. But he won’t take it because it’s Yom Kippur and it will mean breaking his fast.”
    “But that’s nonsense. The rule doesn’t apply to the sick.”
    “I know, but he’s stubborn. I thought maybe you could convince him. Maybe he’ll take it from you.”
    They had come to the first-floor landing, and now Goralsky led him down a short corridor. “Right here,” he said, and pushed open the door.
    The housekeeper rose when they entered, and Goralsky motioned her to wait outside. The room was in marked contrast to the rest of the house, or that portion the rabbi had been able to see as they went up the stairs. In the center of the room was a large, old-fashioned brass bed, in which, propped up by pillows, the old man lay. A large roll-topped oak desk, scratched and scarred and piled high with papers, stood against the wall, and in front was a mahogany swivel chair of the same vintage; on top of its cracked leatherette cushion was another of well-worn tapestry, long removed from some ancient sofa. There were a couple of straight-backed chairs covered in green plush that the rabbi assumed probably had been part of the Goralsky diningroom furniture.
    “The rabbi has come to see you, Papa,” said Goralsky.
    “I thank him,” said the old man. He was small with a pale, waxen face, and a straggly beard. His dark eyes, sunk deep in bony sockets, were bright with fever. One thin hand picked nervously at the coverlet.
    “How do you feel, Mr.