such an absurd idea as becoming a deaf and dumb replacement for Herr Gruen?
“Now, it is my happy task to name the new Schul-Klopper,” the Chief Rabbi intoned. “I will not be presenting this fine hammer to him tonight, because as you know, the hammer is a tool, and no tool can be used on the Sabbath. Tomorrow morning and tomorrow afternoon he will knock on your doors with his fist. But tomorrow evening, in the community room, at the conclusion of the Sabbath, we will drink wine and toast the health of the new Schul-Klopper, and present him with his hammer.”
The Rabbi sipped water from a cup on the lectern. His eyes seemed to take in every face in the temple as he turned about to include them all.
“We were all shocked to learn this morning of the death of Solomon Gruen, our dear friend, whom we have just laid to rest. But soon after, my thoughts turned of necessity to the selecting of his replacement. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. I must tell you, it was not an easy task. By tradition, a new Schul-Klopper is a young man, who can walk the lane with ease. We have many fine young men in this community; it made me proud to contemplate upon them. But which one to select? I was making little progress in coming to a decision — until this afternoon, the Lord, blessed be His name, delivered the answer into my hands. Rabbi Simcha brought into my study a young man from the yeshiva, who had approached him with an interesting notion. I will not dwell on what we talked about, except to say I thought the idea was extraordinary for a boy his age.”
In his seat next to his father, Isidor Kracauer was having trouble accepting what he was hearing. He heard the words but his mind denied their content. In the knot of women at the rear, Guttle let go of the hand of Yetta Liebmann. Her eyes widened with disbelief.
“Some of you know this boy, many of you don’t,” the Chief Rabbi continued. “In some ways he is quite shy. That is one of the very reasons I have chosen him. By knocking on your doors every day, he will meet, sooner or later, every one of you. His shyness, I am confident, will disappear. This will make a serious work of scholarship upon which he is embarking that much more rewarding for all of us. He is also clever enough, his teachers assure me, to understand the records he will need to keep as shammus of the schul, which is an important part of the Schul-Klopper’s job.”
Izzy finally understood. He was breathing rapidly. He could scarcely believe what was happening — this joy that was filling his being. His father Otto, seated beside him, had taken hold of the boy’s arm, high up near the shoulder. He was squeezing so hard — an act of both pride and dismay — that Izzy felt real pain. At the rear, Guttle was having trouble standing in her place. Her feet kept wanting to dance.
“So without further delay,” the Rabbi said, “I announce to you my choice to be the new Schul-Klopper. He is the fine son of our longtime friend and butcher, Otto Kracauer. His name is Isidor. Stand up, Isidor, bitte, so everyone can get a look at you.”
Izzy did not stir. His father put both his strong arms around his son’s slim waist and hoisted him into a standing position. The temple was filled with oohs and ahs and cries of Mazel-tov. Izzy smiled blankly. His father stood and waved to the men on one side and then the other, like one of those rare Jewish prize fighters acknowledging cheers.
Hersch Liebmann looked at his brother’s face. He saw no change of expression. If Hiram was disappointed, he was not showing it. He rarely showed what he was feeling. But Hersch became aware of an odd sensation within himself. The dread that had taken root in his chest the past few hours had vanished. Instead, he felt almost exultant. He did not care to examine why. Perhaps he’d wanted desperately to remain the superior one.
In the women’s place at the rear, giddy from wine and exultation, Guttle could not stop
“Now, it is my happy task to name the new Schul-Klopper,” the Chief Rabbi intoned. “I will not be presenting this fine hammer to him tonight, because as you know, the hammer is a tool, and no tool can be used on the Sabbath. Tomorrow morning and tomorrow afternoon he will knock on your doors with his fist. But tomorrow evening, in the community room, at the conclusion of the Sabbath, we will drink wine and toast the health of the new Schul-Klopper, and present him with his hammer.”
The Rabbi sipped water from a cup on the lectern. His eyes seemed to take in every face in the temple as he turned about to include them all.
“We were all shocked to learn this morning of the death of Solomon Gruen, our dear friend, whom we have just laid to rest. But soon after, my thoughts turned of necessity to the selecting of his replacement. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. I must tell you, it was not an easy task. By tradition, a new Schul-Klopper is a young man, who can walk the lane with ease. We have many fine young men in this community; it made me proud to contemplate upon them. But which one to select? I was making little progress in coming to a decision — until this afternoon, the Lord, blessed be His name, delivered the answer into my hands. Rabbi Simcha brought into my study a young man from the yeshiva, who had approached him with an interesting notion. I will not dwell on what we talked about, except to say I thought the idea was extraordinary for a boy his age.”
In his seat next to his father, Isidor Kracauer was having trouble accepting what he was hearing. He heard the words but his mind denied their content. In the knot of women at the rear, Guttle let go of the hand of Yetta Liebmann. Her eyes widened with disbelief.
“Some of you know this boy, many of you don’t,” the Chief Rabbi continued. “In some ways he is quite shy. That is one of the very reasons I have chosen him. By knocking on your doors every day, he will meet, sooner or later, every one of you. His shyness, I am confident, will disappear. This will make a serious work of scholarship upon which he is embarking that much more rewarding for all of us. He is also clever enough, his teachers assure me, to understand the records he will need to keep as shammus of the schul, which is an important part of the Schul-Klopper’s job.”
Izzy finally understood. He was breathing rapidly. He could scarcely believe what was happening — this joy that was filling his being. His father Otto, seated beside him, had taken hold of the boy’s arm, high up near the shoulder. He was squeezing so hard — an act of both pride and dismay — that Izzy felt real pain. At the rear, Guttle was having trouble standing in her place. Her feet kept wanting to dance.
“So without further delay,” the Rabbi said, “I announce to you my choice to be the new Schul-Klopper. He is the fine son of our longtime friend and butcher, Otto Kracauer. His name is Isidor. Stand up, Isidor, bitte, so everyone can get a look at you.”
Izzy did not stir. His father put both his strong arms around his son’s slim waist and hoisted him into a standing position. The temple was filled with oohs and ahs and cries of Mazel-tov. Izzy smiled blankly. His father stood and waved to the men on one side and then the other, like one of those rare Jewish prize fighters acknowledging cheers.
Hersch Liebmann looked at his brother’s face. He saw no change of expression. If Hiram was disappointed, he was not showing it. He rarely showed what he was feeling. But Hersch became aware of an odd sensation within himself. The dread that had taken root in his chest the past few hours had vanished. Instead, he felt almost exultant. He did not care to examine why. Perhaps he’d wanted desperately to remain the superior one.
In the women’s place at the rear, giddy from wine and exultation, Guttle could not stop
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